


To Get to You

by ikehgaan



Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Baz internally freaking out but still managing to look cool, M/M, Simon "we hit each other with our mouths it's practically the same as regular fighting" Snow, also casual blowjobs and eventual Sex but like they'll get there, and me crying because I'm still not over carry on, featuring Simon doing things because they feel good without thinking about consequences, they kiss a lot and they act like they hate each other but they don't
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-29
Updated: 2016-09-19
Packaged: 2018-07-11 00:53:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 40,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7017829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ikehgaan/pseuds/ikehgaan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Simon figured the Pitches didn’t exactly encourage being open and honest about feelings. Unsurprising, but a little sad. Baz always acted aloof, as though nothing got to him, except with Simon. Simon could always get to Baz.</p><p>(When Simon can’t take out his frustration on Baz by fighting him in their room because of the anathema, he resorts to more... <em>unconventional</em> methods).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! 
> 
> This is my first SnowBaz fic, and it’s cliche and long as heck but I hope you still enjoy it! It takes place in their 7th year, and like, arguably, if you squint, could be sort-of-within-canon, but is also basically an AU and it’s easier to call it that. The whole thing is finished (aside from minor edits) so I’ll do my best to update weekly!

Simon was having a bad day.

He woke up to the sound of Baz showering and in one panic-stricken moment knew he was late – Baz always slept in because he apparently didn’t need to eat breakfast, unlike Simon. If he was already in the shower it meant breakfast was more than half over.

Struggling out of the covers he’d twisted around himself in his sleep, Simon rushed around the room, pulling his uniform on and tripping over shoes and spell books. His wand had somehow rolled far under his bed – he had spent a good five minutes with his ass in the air trying to reach it – but at least his bag was still packed from yesterday.

The only thing left was his hair. Simon could feel it sticking up, extra-unruly after sleeping on it wet. He pounded on the bathroom door, screaming at Baz to hurry up so he could actually look in a mirror and run a brush through his curls, but the rushing water continued. Baz typically took short showers, but Simon wouldn’t put it past him to stay in there just out of spite.

With a huff of annoyance Simon ran a hand through his hair a final time. He swore he heard the shower shut off the minute he closed the bedroom door, but he was already late and he couldn’t touch Baz in the room. Bloody anathema.

When Simon reached the dining hall, it was empty save for a few stragglers, and all the food was already put away.

No breakfast. No sour cherry scones. Simon’s stomach growled, and he swore under his breath and stalked off toward elocution.

It was such a little thing to be bitter over, but it was so easy to let his anger bubble up. He aimed it at Baz – for not making more noise when he got up, for staying in the shower when he knew Simon was late – because that was easy, too. Ever since last year when Baz had decided to avoid Simon as much as possible, walking off in the middle of an argument or Simon saying something to him, Simon’s anger, had only been growing. It was like Baz thought he was above Simon, too good to give him the time of day. Simon hated him.

When Simon arrived to Elocution, he went over to stand near Penny, dropping his bag heavily at his feet. She raised an eyebrow at him, a silent _Where were you? Are you okay?_ but he brushed off her concern with a hand as Madam Bellamy began to explain the lesson for the day. They’d be practicing control, of all things, because the universe hated Simon and wanted him to have the worst day possible.

Simon sighed as Madam Bellamy handed out little candles, reminding them of the flame spell they could use to light them. Most students immediately lit their candles – it was an easy spell, typically mastered in first or second year, and this was a usual beginning-of-the-year exercise, little more than a warm-up – but Simon waited. He was on edge, which made his magic even more volatile than normal, and fire was dangerous. Madam Bellamy started heading over toward him when she saw he wasn’t casting, though, so with his eyes squeezed shut Simon muttered the spell and…

A little flame flickered to life on his candle. Simon let out a breath of relief, seeing Penny smile at him in his periphery, her own flame steady. He was finally starting to feel better after not catching anything, or anyone, on fire when he felt something cut through his focus.

Glancing up, Simon locked eyes with Baz across the room. Baz was holding his flame with practiced ease, eyes boring into Simon.

Merlin, Simon hated him.

Simon didn’t even know why Baz was bothering to practice such a simple fire spell when he was already amazing at fire magic, but maybe that’s why Baz was multitasking. He was probably plotting Simon’s demise with the part of his brain that wasn’t focused on the small flickering flame in front of him.

When Baz saw Simon was looking back at him, his lips curled into a taunting smirk, and Simon could practically hear the derision in his thoughts. _Wow, Snow, I’m amazed you can even do a simple spell like this; I guess we now have proof you have the skill level of a first-year and the maturity level to match._ Simon thought about Baz in the shower earlier, no doubt laughing to himself as Simon pounded on the door. He thought about Baz avoiding him, clicking his tongue at him and ducking out of arguments and acting like Simon didn’t get to him, like he didn’t hate Simon as much as Simon hated him, and before Simon realized what was happening heat was flooding through him and his little flame was bulging into a fireball that burst inches from his face.

He was lucky all he got was a singed uniform and sooty curls. When the smoke cleared, Simon could see Baz still watching him, looking ridiculously pleased with the situation. Anger burned through Simon and he grabbed his wand from where it had fallen in the explosion to point it toward Baz threateningly. But then there was a hand pulling it from his grip; Simon looked up from Baz’s raised eyebrow and challenging expression to see Madam Bellamy, frowning down at him.

“I think that’s enough for today, don’t you, Mr. Snow?”

Simon nodded, embarrassed, and accepted his wand back with a muttered apology. When he stood up he caught Penny’s eye, but she only sighed. Baz still looked as smug and pristine as usual.

The hallways were empty when Simon stalked out of Elocution, but when he went outside to get some air his eyes caught on a figure with pale blonde hair moving swiftly across the courtyard. Simon smiled despite his bad mood – at least this part of his life was sorted – and jogged to catch up.

“Agatha!” he called, smile fading when Agatha turned to look at him and he saw a flash of annoyance cross her face. She smoothed her expression out instantly, though, and smiled almost normally at Simon.

“I thought you had class,” she said, and Simon grimaced at the memory.

“There was a little, uh, incident,” Simon admitted, and Agatha sighed, looking weary.

“You went off again, didn’t you?” 

Simon nodded, hating the look of tired pity on Agatha’s face and imagining strangling the smirk off of Baz’s. Trying to push past his mood, though, for Agatha’s sake, he said, “Since I have some extra time, do you want to go for a walk around the grounds?”

He wished he hadn’t asked. Agatha winced, did a shite job of covering that up, too, and said,

“Actually, Simon, there’s something I want to talk to you about.”

Simon went through the motions like a good boyfriend, like a good person, nodding and agreeing when Agatha explained why she thought they should take another break (even though they had just gotten back together only a few weeks ago). The only reason he was holding back his anger was because it was Agatha. Plus, he didn’t want to go off again, and his mood made him especially unstable.

“I’m so glad you understand, Simon. You’re the best,” Agatha said at last, freeing Simon from this slow torture with a painfully awkward hug Simon made worse by refusing to participate in. He tried to smile at her when she pulled back, but she saw through it like she always did and patted him gently on the arm before turning away with a solemn, “Bye, Simon.”

Simon watched her disappear back toward the school buildings, a bad taste in his mouth. Then he turned in the direction of Mummers House, dragging his feet and wanting nothing more than to collapse into his bed.

So, of course, when Simon got back to his room there was Baz, sitting at his desk, looking relaxed with not a hair out of place, flipping through a book.

In lieu of a greeting Simon dumped his bag on his bed and angrily toed off his shoes. Baz licked his finger and turned a page.

Simon hated Baz’s hands, all long fingers and graceful lines. He hated the way Baz’s hair always fell around his face in effortless waves, when Simon had to battle his hair every day and it always remained curly mess. He hated the sharp lines of Baz’s face and his cunning, grey eyes and his stupidly long limbs.

After their fifth year, when Simon had been sure Baz was plotting something and had tracked him all year to keep an eye on him, he had gotten so used to seeing those stupid hands and that stupid hair and the stupidly graceful way Baz moved Simon had started seeing flashes of them in his dreams. It continued into last year, too, when Baz suddenly started avoiding Simon like the plague; Simon figured it was like when you had a thought right before you went to sleep and then dreamt about it because your brain hadn’t finished thinking about it. Having Baz avoid him was somehow more infuriating than having him in Simon’s space all the time – at least then Simon could keep an eye on him and wasn’t worrying about what he was off doing.

“You’re staring, Snow,” Baz jeered, cutting through Simon’s thoughts, the phrase so filled with condescension Simon had to clench his fists to resist cursing Baz.

Instead he stood lamely in the middle of the room, waiting, until Baz marked his spot in his book and set it on the desk, standing up and turning toward Simon. Baz’s eyes took in the state of Simon’s uniform, roving down to his socked feet and up to his hair. When his gaze fell and met Simon’s, a cruel smile broke out on his face.

“Bad day?” Baz asked. The sneer of delight in his voice made Simon’s vision go red, heat flooding him down to his toes, and suddenly he was charging Baz, backing him up until he was pressed against the door, one hand in his collar and the other pulled back to swing.

“Anathema,” Baz said simply, sounding bored, sounding like Simon holding him in a death grip was little more than an inconvenience. Simon’s ears rang with anger; Baz was directly responsible for at least, like, 30% of Simon’s bad day, and directly related to the rest of it. He was so tired of Baz acting like ruining Simon’s life was something he did without trying, like Simon didn’t matter, like he didn’t hate him with enough ferocity to crumble a city. Avoiding him. Refusing to argue with him.

Simon wanted to provoke a reaction, have Baz meet his anger with equally rough hands and biting words. Instead all he received was contempt in a silent stare through hooded eyes – Baz was as composed as ever. And now Simon didn’t even get the satisfaction of punching him.

He hated the anathema. He hated that he couldn’t beat the shit out of Baz on a daily basis right here in the comfort of their shared room. If Watford weren’t so important to him, Simon wouldn’t hesitate to deck Baz in his stupid pale, gracefully thin face. 

Simon brought his free hand down to twist in Baz’s collar, too, feeling like he had to do _something_ with his anger, even if it was pointlessly trap Baz against the door. But then Baz was saying something in his annoyingly snarky tone about Simon stretching out his collar and Simon’s vision went white as he felt his anger boil over. Suddenly he was crashing forward, crushing Baz against the door and pressing their lips together.

Dark satisfaction welled in Simon’s stomach at the way Baz gasped into his mouth, eyes wide. Squeezing his eyes shut, Simon pressed forward, feeling Baz’s cool, slightly chapped lips under his own. Baz remained irritatingly frozen, though, still not _reacting_ , so Simon pushed more, worked Baz’s lips until he got a response.

It was all biting teeth and bruising kisses, and not unlike fighting, Simon mused between breaths. Simon would push against Baz, taking his bottom lip between his teeth, nipping hard enough to draw blood, and Baz would retaliate, winding a hand into Simon’s hair and tugging sharply, his tongue darting out to brush against Simon’s. They went back and forth, trading sharp kisses, chasing each other’s lips when they pulled back for air.

Simon didn’t stop to consider why Baz responded with equal ferocity after a while – Baz always did, in their fights or their arguments once they got going. Why would this be any different?

After several minutes Simon pulled back, biting Baz’s bottom lip once more for good measure. They were both panting, still pressed flush against each other. Baz’s pale face was dusted pink, his lips kissed swollen and red. When Simon finally let go of Baz’s collar – which was slightly stretched out, but it wasn’t like Baz couldn’t fix that easily – Simon shifted back. He met Baz’s eyes, saw his pupils were blown but his gaze was clearing quickly, some uncomfortable emotion dawning in them Simon did his best to ignore.

“What—?” Baz began, but Simon quickly cut him off.

“Anathema,” he said, trying to casually wipe the spit from his lips with the back of his hand.

Baz looked at Simon like he was an idiot, rubbing his own lips distractedly with a finger, but Simon refused to admit that his alternative to punching Baz in the face was weird. It wasn’t weird, they just… hit each other with their mouths instead of their fists.

“We can’t fight in here…” Simon trailed off lamely, and Baz rolled his eyes.

“And why wouldn’t I drag you out into the hallway to pummel you if I were so inclined?” Baz asked, leaning back against the door and looking more like his typical, irritatingly composed self. Simon realized he had a hand resting on Baz’s hip and pulled it back abruptly, hoping Baz wouldn’t notice the additional flush on his face.

Simon didn’t really have a good response to that, so he shrugged and said, “Too much work?”

Baz just looked _done_ , running a hand tiredly over his face then up into his hair to push it back from his face. It was always funny when Baz’s hair was pulled or slicked back – his insane widow’s peak was even more visible, and it reminded Simon of stereotypical vampires.

“You’re an idiot,” Baz said at last, but it sounded like a reassurance (of what, Simon wasn’t sure, but he was comforted nonetheless). Simon shrugged again.

“Well, I’m gonna go shower,” he said, turning to dig through his drawers for boxers and a shirt. He really needed to do laundry – Penny would tell him to just spell his clothes cleaned, but he didn’t really want to accidentally deep-clean their entire bedroom (he’d probably take the paint right off the walls), so he always ended up having to drag his clothes down to the old washers and dryers in the basement. It was a pain, and Simon was already dreading the lost time, but for some reason it didn’t put him in quite a bad mood as usual.

As Simon headed toward the bathroom, he passed Baz, still leaning against the door and watching him closely.

And he was going to let it go – Baz was probably just waiting for him to leave so he could resume whatever weird things he did when he had the room to himself – but who would Simon be if he passed up an opportunity to piss off Baz.

Simon stepped into Baz’s personal space again, smirking at the way his eyes went wide. Then he leaned slowly toward him until their faces were centimeters apart, waiting a beat before bringing a hand up and flicking him in the forehead. Baz recoiled and smacked his head into the door. 

Simon laughed. “You’re staring, Baz,” he said, mimicking Baz’s earlier taunt. Baz flipped him off in response, rubbing his forehead with his other hand. 

“Go take your damn shower, Snow. You smell.”

With a snort Simon conceded, slipping into the bathroom. The feeling of the water cutting through the grime of the day felt unbelievably good, and Simon wanted to stay in the shower for as long as the hot water would permit (did they even run out of hot water here? He’d have to test that, one day) but his eyes were beginning to feel heavy in the steam of the bathroom. When Simon emerged from the bathroom he expected Baz to be there, snapping at him about taking long showers and making everything humid, but their room was empty.

Simon’s stomach dropped before he realized this was normal, Baz usually disappeared in the evenings to do vampire-y things in the catacombs. There was comfort in the normalcy of that, their routine, but Simon wasn’t sure why he was worried in the first place. Baz disappeared after their fights, too, sometimes even in the middle of them, but Simon would’ve felt weird if Baz had left immediately after their fight today.

Simon shook the thought out of his head. He was being weird. This whole thing was weird. But then it involved Baz, so Simon wasn’t sure why he was surprised.

He wasn’t going to think about it, he decided, as he flopped down into his bed and fought the covers until he was curled under them. So what if he could feel the ghost of Baz’s tongue against his lips – he could usually feel the ghost of Baz’s fist against his sides. It was practically the same thing.

Simon allowed himself one brush of his fingers over his lips before he shoved his hands under his legs and forced his eyes closed. In minutes he was asleep, errant thoughts of Baz blurring into darkness.

xxx

If anyone had asked, Simon would’ve absolutely denied it, but he was extremely relieved when Baz was snapping at him the next morning about making so much noise so early. This was normal – Baz complaining about the curtains being open, or about Simon slamming drawers, and Simon doing both because he knew it bothered Baz – this was their routine.

Simon’s good mood dulled when he went down for breakfast and saw Penny, remembering everything that had happened yesterday before his fight with Baz.

“Hey Simon, how are you?” Penny asked, concern in her voice, as Simon sat down next to her and grabbed a scone.

“I’m fine, did I miss much yesterday?”

Penny shook her head, grimacing at the amount of butter Simon lathered onto his scone. “No. After your, well… _accident_ , Madam Bellamy spelled the classroom clean and then dismissed us.”

Simon nodded silently, working away on his scone. That was good, at least. It wouldn’t do him well to fall behind, not with his magic as uncontrollable as it was.

“But, Simon?” Penny began. “What happened?”

“Baz,” Simon muttered around a mouthful of scone, and Penny rolled her eyes.

“I don’t know why you let him get to you,” she said, and Simon sighed.

“It’s not like I _want_ him to get to me! It just… happens.”

Penny rolled her eyes again, but Simon ignored her, glancing across the hall to see that Baz was, per usual, watching him. Simon stared back until Baz looked away.

He and Penny sat in companionable silence for a few minutes, then, before Penny looked awkwardly over at Simon.

“I… heard about you and Agatha…” she said, and all Simon wanted to do was enjoy his scones and his good mood, but he knew Penny always felt bad when he and Agatha had problems, being friends with both of them, which always made _him_ feel bad as a result.

“It’s fine. We’re just on a break,” Simon said, trying to reassure her, honestly trying to reassure _himself_ , too.

Penny sighed, picking at a loose thread on her uniform sleeve. “How many has this been, now?” she mumbled, and Simon set his scone down so hard his plate clattered. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Baz glance over at him, one eyebrow raised.

“Penny, _we’re fine_.”

They were fine. In another few weeks they’d get back together, and one day after Simon defeated the Insidious Humdrum and they both graduated they’d move in together and then get married and have a kid or two. Penny would visit them with Micah for holidays and Simon would never have to see Baz’s stupid face again.

A weight settled in Simon’s stomach at the thought, but only because he knew what the end game for Baz and him was – defeat, death, for one of them. It was the only conceivable option.

But that was in the future. For now, Simon picked his scone back up and sneered at Baz and focused on getting through his classes without going off again.

xxx

The day hadn’t been particularly bad. Simon may’ve been a bit frustrated because his magic wasn’t cooperating, sure, and maybe he wanted to punch something when he saw Agatha walking with some tall, handsome 8th year in the halls, but he was fine.

Except when he got back to his room and Baz was sitting at Simon’s desk even though Baz’s was perfectly clean and perfectly empty. And suddenly Simon’s frustration over everything was welling up and pouring over and he was ripping Baz’s book out of his hands, throwing it across the room, and pressing their lips together.

There was no hesitation from Baz, this time, no pretense because Simon was frustrated and hungry and Agatha never kissed him like this, even when they _weren’t_ on a break, Agatha never kissed him like a challenge, like kissing was something exciting.

Baz’s tongue reminded Simon of that candle flame, hot and flickering, dipping into Simon’s mouth and burning everywhere it touched. Simon had a hand gripping the back of Baz’s head, the other supporting himself on Baz’s thigh, and he felt the heat of his anger bubble over with every breath that mixed with Baz’s.

Simon pulled back to press his face into Baz’s neck, mouthing at the skin there, taking it into his teeth and grinning at Baz’s breath hitching.

“Snow…” Baz said, voice shaky, and Simon sucked hard into Baz’s neck, drawing a moan out of Baz. Baz’s hands were tight on Simon’s back, making sure Simon didn’t fall off his lap, but when Simon shifted forward to get better leverage Baz suddenly gasped and pulled back his hands. Simon blinked and he was on the floor, looking up at Baz and feeling a bruise already forming on his ass.

Baz was breathing heavily, a hand tangled in his hair to push it back from his flushed face, and Simon wondered what had happened when his eyes flicked down and—

_Oh._

Simon’s lips parted. His throat was so dry. 

The flush across Baz’s porcelain-smooth skin disappeared below his shirt, and he was trying to adjust himself without being obvious, but Simon had already _seen_. 

It was a stupid thing for Simon to overlook when he had started this whole thing – their bodies would naturally react, and of course that’d make things awkward, but Baz looked especially panicked. 

“It’s… it’s okay—“ 

“Shut up, Snow,” Baz said, standing abruptly and skirting around Simon to head toward the door. 

“Baz, wait!” 

“What?” Baz snapped, turning to look down at Simon. Simon pushed himself slowly off the floor, stalling for time, but then he was standing and looking at Baz and that’s when he realized Baz was _embarrassed_ , and Simon started to laugh. Which may not have been a great idea – except Baz just rolled his eyes, and Simon dutifully avoided looking at his crotch. 

“I hate you,” Baz said after a moment, and Simon nodded.

“Yeah. I know,” he said, but he was smiling, and feeling kind of giddy, kind of like he could run a marathon, or cast something and have it actually _work_. He was in a good enough mood he let Baz take a shower first, (and Simon did _not_ think about Baz thinking about him in the shower, and if he did it was only to revel in the fact that he had a leg up on Baz, now, a way to tease him in the future). Then they switched and Simon took a quick shower, but by the time he came out of the bathroom Baz was asleep.

Glancing at Baz's sleeping form as he got into bed, Simon thought about how, for once, looking at Baz didn't make him feel prickly and on edge like he usually was around him, always cautious, always on guard and expecting Baz to lash out.

Seeing Baz red-faced and panting, wanting, and because of _Simon_ , made it a little easier to imagine Baz as a regular person, Simon's weird roommate who read all the time and was almost creepily similar to Penny, sometimes, instead of the incredible wizard whose family was a major player in the rebellion against the Mage.

Simon still had to be on guard – they were enemies, pawns on opposite sides of a growing conflict. But with Baz like this - asleep, curled up tight under the covers, hair spread out around his pale face - he looked young, mortal, and almost... almost _cute_.

But, like, not in a _cute_ cute way, of course. Cute like when a really dangerous animal was being vulnerable, for once, and was cute only by comparison to its normal demeanor.

Simon laughed quietly to himself as he imagined what Baz would say if he could hear Simon’s thoughts. He’d probably be really pissy about Simon even hinting at his occasional vulnerability. Simon figured the Pitches didn’t exactly encourage being open and honest about feelings. Unsurprising, but a little sad. Baz probably had as many feelings as the next guy, but he was always acting aloof as though nothing got to him.

(Except when it was Simon. Simon could always get to Baz just like Baz could always get to Simon. The balance was a comfort – Simon had just had to use an unconventional tactic to elicit a response).

The next morning, when Baz was pounding on the bathroom door and swearing at Simon to hurry up, Simon stuck his head out, grabbed Baz’s collar, and kissed him, silencing any further complaints. When he pulled back Baz was wide-eyed, gaze roving over Simon’s face and his bare chest and then back up to look questioningly into Simon’s eyes.

“Pretty good way of shutting you up,” Simon said as way of explanation, then slammed the bathroom door in Baz’s shocked face and took his time getting ready. Baz had plenty of time, anyway, he’d just be a little late for breakfast (which was normal for him) but when Simon went back into their room it was empty.

Or that was what he thought, until he stepped away from the bathroom door and Baz jumped out from behind it, pressing Simon up against his dresser and sucking at Simon’s neck, tongue darting out to sooth where he nipped until soon Simon was panting and hot. 

“Good way to get payback, too,” Baz said as he pulled away, looking smug, then slipped into the bathroom.

Simon sat down hard on his bed, willing his arousal down even as he ran a hand over the stinging mark on his neck and felt himself flush. When he looked in the mirror there was a dark bruise already forming, and of course, _of course_ it was in a spot that Simon’s uniform wouldn’t cover.

At breakfast Penny just stared silently for a good 2 minutes before Simon shot her a look, to which she raised her hands in a silent “never mind”. In Political Science Baz shot him this… this _grin_ , and thus began the tensest weeks of Simon’s life.

Kissing not only became their new fighting, it became part of their arguments, insults punctured with teeth on lips and hands in hair. Outside of their room they continued to trade only derisive glares and verbal insults. Simon didn’t feel constantly on the precipice of exploding, magic-wise, either, but…

He was getting _frustrated_. It wouldn’t have been a problem if they weren’t edging closer to this sexual precipice, rutting against each other until Baz was pulling back before either of them got a release and croaking out “Wait”, or “Stop”, an edge of panic to his voice that had Simon immediately untangling their limbs. Simon was starting to get a crick in his wrist, and Baz didn’t say anything, but Simon could _see_ him smirking whenever Simon was massaging it. If Simon couldn’t understand Baz’s hesitancy, he’d say Baz was just holding out to tease him. But it was a _thing_ , a line that had implications when they crossed it.

So Baz remained jumpy every time they even got close to going past kissing, despite those instances occurring more and more frequently, and they never went further. Simon had more bruises covering his chest and neck than he’d ever had when he and Baz fought normally, and the amount of times he’d woken up with dirty boxers was reaching puberty-levels of ridiculousness. But he was kissing Baz almost daily and it made him feel airy and powerful and it was enough. At least until Baz wanted to go further.

xxx

Simon was dozing when Baz came back from football practice one day, looking sweaty and pissed, hair sticking to his forehead.

“Why weren’t you at the game?” he asked Simon, pulling his damp shirt off and throwing it in the hamper. Simon was momentarily preoccupied by Baz’s back muscles shifting in the afternoon light – the bastard, of course he’d look like he was chiseled from marble – and didn’t really hear the question until Baz turned around, clean clothes and towel in hand.

“I fell asleep.”

Baz stared at Simon before wordlessly turning and heading into the bathroom.

“How’d you guys do?” Simon yelled, but the bathroom door was already shut and Simon could hear the water running. Baz took quick showers, so Simon just dozed some more until the water turned off, and then blinked open his eyes to watch Baz emerge from the bathroom in only his boxers.

“How’d you guys do?” Simon asked again, but the words petered out as Baz climbed easily on top of him, pressing their lips together and slipping a hand under Simon’s shirt.

“We lost,” Baz said, already dipping down to run his teeth along Simon’s collarbone.

“ _Oh_ ,” Simon said, arching when Baz bit into his shoulder, hands scrabbling for purchase on Baz’s back.

It was always enthralling when Baz took the lead like this. He so rarely did, but where Simon was all biting kisses and pressing hands, his focus on eliciting a response and getting swept up in the experience, Baz was slower and more purposeful, making Simon feeling like he was overheating and melting at the same time. 

Baz’s kisses were like drops of molten lava, each one imprinting a series of sensations on Simon’s mind: the feel of Baz’s teeth scraping against his lip, or his tongue dipping into his mouth, or the way Baz shuddered, sometimes, when their lips were melded together and neither wanted to pull away except to take gasping breaths before diving back in. The result was a feeling akin to being submerged into a really hot bath, almost unbearable with how heady and purposeful every movement of lips and teeth and hands was, but nevertheless addicting.

Simon was so preoccupied with the feel of Baz’s lips on his and the way Baz’s muscles shifted under his hands that he didn’t even realize when Baz slid a hand down between them, pressing against Simon. Gasping, Simon broke the kiss to whimper into Baz’s neck at the pressure of his fingers, writhing under him.

“Watching you come undone so easily is _beyond_ satisfying, Snow,” Baz whispered into Simon’s ear, the words curling around Simon’s mind and causing a wave of shivers to wrack his body. “It almost makes up for you not being at the game, today. You know seeing your stupid face in the crowd always gives me that extra _edge_ —“

Baz accented the word with an especially forceful press and Simon gasped, mind hazy with arousal.

“Y…you blame… blame _me_... for your shitty playing?” Simon panted out, moaning as Baz harshly slotted their mouths together again in response.

And somehow, by the grace of Merlin, Baz lost his balance when he captured Simon’s lips and fell forward into Simon, flush against him and pressing him into the bed. Simon arched back as a moan tore through him, feeling Baz’s hardness press against his own, and when Baz shifted to try to get up it only created more friction, drawing moans from both of them. 

If Simon thought he was going to lose it before, he was sorely unprepared for the burning heat of arousal that pulsed under his skin as Baz started rocking against him, messily pressing their mouths together and twining his fingers in Simon’s hair.

Simon still had his hands on Baz’s back, feeling the muscles there tense and shift, his focus split between messy kisses and the feeling of Baz pressed against him. In moments he was coming, sighing Baz’s name into his lips.

When he came back down Baz was draped heavily against him, breath warm on Simon’s neck.

The position was comfortable for about a minute before Simon couldn’t take any more of Baz’s sharp limbs. 

“Baz, get off, you’re heavy,” Simon whined, and Baz, surprisingly, flopped off of him without a word, shoving Simon over so he could lay on the bed next to him.

Simon adjusted his pants and boxers, grimacing – more laundry to do, but it was _definitely_ worth it. When he glanced over at Baz he was just lying there, staring at the ceiling and not blinking. Unnerved by the silence, Simon started poking at Baz’s side until Baz swatted his hand away and turned to look at him.

They stared silently at each other for a few moments before Simon turned away.

“I’m sorry you guys lost,” he said, and Baz huffed a humorless laugh next to him. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” Simon said, more quietly. It wasn’t like he started going to the games to support Baz – he liked football, and had also wanted to keep an eye on Baz – but he guessed after years of Simon always being in the stands they’d both gotten used to it.

Baz shrugged when Simon turned back to him. “You can make it up to me,” he said, tone unreadable, standing from Simon’s bed and heading toward the bathroom.

 _Stay_. The thought flashed through Simon’s head and he blinked, frozen, imagining himself reaching a hand out and voicing the desire, wondering what Baz would do. 

Wondering why he’d had the thought at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cross-posted on tumblr: carry-on--simon.tumblr.com/post/145122702965/part-14


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the next chapter!
> 
> Thank you guys so, so much for all the positive feedback! I read all your comments and they mean so much. I'm so glad you guys like the story so far :)
> 
> This section is from Baz's perspective, but it'll be back to Simon next chapter. Enjoy!

Baz was fucked. Royally, completely fucked.

He wasn’t the least bit surprised it was Snow’s fault – he always knew if anyone was going to destroy him, it would be Snow. He just never expected to enjoy it.

It didn’t make sense to Baz, at first. He spent several sleepless nights wondering if Snow was just stupid enough to conflate sexual tension for anger. And then chastising himself because Snow was straight, Snow was with Agatha, even if they weren’t together right now, and Snow still hated him.

But then it _continued_. Baz knew how to kiss Snow so he’d melt in his hands, knew which spots on Snow’s neck were the most sensitive, knew how to draw songs composed of moans and whimpers out of him as easily as Baz drew notes from the strings of his violin.

When Baz thought of Snow he saw flashes of golden curls tangled between his own pale fingers and Snow’s full lips open in a pant, or a moan, and Snow’s eyes blown wide in arousal.

Baz would never be able to forget the way Simon said his name in the midst of these things, voice breathy and wavering, almost as though he actually wanted Baz.

Baz _hated him_. 

He thought it couldn’t get worse than their 5th year, when Snow had tailed him like an attractive, insufferable dog. Baz had lashed out – taunting Snow, fighting with him constantly, even almost stealing his voice – trying _anything_ to press down the feelings that had boiled up in him and remained no matter how much he tried to convince himself they were a mistake, a result of puberty and having an attractive roommate. It was the only alternative to admitting things to himself he couldn’t. 

But nothing worked. Wanking the summer away to every scenario Baz could think of didn’t work. The only thing that reaffirmed Baz’s resistance to his feelings was having Fiona increasingly emphasize the importance of keeping an eye on Snow because the Mage was clearly planning something, and Baz had easy access to the Mage’s weak spot. _He’s not a weak spot_ , Baz wanted to scream. _He’s a person_.

Baz had arrived to Watford in the fall cool and collected once more. The summer didn’t make anything easier, but Fiona’s comments secured one thing in his mind, at least. He and Snow were nothing more than pawns on opposite sides of the game. They could do nothing except destroy each other. That was the way the stories went. Baz wouldn’t get a happy ending.

Snow was as annoying and alluring as ever, but Baz brushed off his taunts easier, found himself stalking away instead of giving in whenever he felt that charge in the air around them that meant a fight was about to start. Somehow Baz’s reactions had the opposite effect on Snow, making him more physically abrasive than ever. He shoved himself up in Baz’s face when they argued and was always grabbing at Baz’s arm to get his attention and running into him when they passed in the halls. Ignoring him was difficult, but Baz just disappeared into the catacombs at night and avoided Snow as much as he could during the day all through their sixth year and into their seventh.

It hurt, but Baz took some masochistic comfort in the knowledge that he was doing the right thing. Nothing between him and Snow could ever happen. He was making sure nothing would.

But then something did.

And Baz wasn’t prepared in the least. 

He went with it, though, following Snow’s lead. Not for some sweeping, poetic reason either, but because it had been easy. It had been ridiculously easy, with Snow pressing him against the door and working at his mouth, demanding a response, to kiss him back with all the built up hatred and hunger Baz possessed. And then, again, when Snow burst through the door and (rudely) freed Baz of his book and attacked him. 

Unfortunately, Baz had fantasized so many times about kissing Snow in that exact, ferocious way that when his fantasy was realized his goddamn body betrayed him.

And Baz had panicked, because making out – for Snow, at least – was one thing, justifiable with some throwaway excuse regarding the anathema. It was more than Baz ever expected, almost too much, but to have Snow look up at him worried, confused, and say,

“It’s okay.”

Baz nearly lost it right there, in the middle of the room, his dick still half-hard and straining against his uniform pants. Who was _Snow_ to tell Baz any of this was okay when he didn’t even comprehend the extent of what he had started? Baz was good at keeping his thoughts and emotions under control – he had to be, with his family, with his secrets, with who he was – but this was a lot, even for him.

He held it together, somehow. His father would be so proud. 

Baz swore to himself then that he could have this – making out with Snow, tasting him until he was dizzy – as long as he kept everything else to himself. Dealt with it in the shower.

Because if it went further, Snow would realize. Baz was only so strong, and his feelings for Snow felt unstable, explosive, like a single charge would set them off if Baz wasn’t careful.

So Baz was careful. Careful to keep his hands above Snow’s waist, tucked neatly into his nest of hair or braced on his shoulder or wrapped around the back of his neck. Careful to snap at Snow the way he always had, with contempt, derision, making sure Snow thought the hatred was mutual. Even when Snow started kissing him out of the blue, kissing him in quick, deep kisses that were like taunts, thrown about carelessly as though they didn’t leave Baz more shocked and breathless than the drawn out ones they shared sometimes did. 

Baz was careful not to lead, careful to follow, careful to hide as many hickies as he could and brush off Dev and Niall’s questions about the ones he couldn’t. Careful to hide his feelings. Careful.

He should’ve known better. Doing what he was with Simon was akin to playing with fire. And no matter how careful he tried to be, Baz would always be flammable.

It was irresponsible to let his anger flare up when he saw Bunce at the football game without Snow. It was irresponsible to let his anger affect his playing, even though they probably would’ve lost to that team anyway. But he certainly could’ve done without the red card and the warning from his coach.

And when he got back to his room and saw Snow asleep, looking unperturbed and completely unaware he had just ruined a good part of Baz’s day, the responsible thing was to ignore him and get in the shower. So Baz did.

And then he was tired of being responsible.

In terms of ease, too, sliding a hand down to palm Snow through his jeans was easy. Watching Snow arch up into Baz’s hand and cry out was easy. Trapping Snow’s moan between their lips was easy. It was all easy easy easy, as second-nature to Baz as casting. As effortless as catching on fire.

When Baz’s legs went weak and he collapsed into Snow that’s what he thought had happened. The heat was so acute Baz wondered if anyone in his family had ever burst into flame because they were so turned on. He hoped he wouldn’t. But he still couldn’t stop himself from rocking forward into Snow, pressing against him and moaning through every shock of heat and arousal.

Snow came under Baz, _because_ of Baz, and it was that thought that sent Baz over the edge, left him flopped boneless on top of Snow.

It’s too bad Snow was a twat who didn’t understand the importance of cuddling after sex. Or maybe that wasn’t in the “acceptable things to do with your roommate who you hate under the pretense of fighting” handbook. Baz wouldn’t know.

So he left Snow sex flushed and debauched and put on a new pair of boxers and some clothes before escaping to the catacombs. It was good to get out of their room, escape down to the dusty and decrepit caverns that housed bones and rats and Baz’s mother, at least in spirit.

Baz wasn’t exactly hungry, but it was always good to be safe. Especially with how close he had been to Snow’s neck lately. Especially with how Simon always remembered to take off his cross before they started these things, after it fell against Baz once and he jerked back like he was burned. 

(Baz refused to think about how Snow had looked when that had happened. Looks like that would be the death of him if Snow didn’t kill him first).

He fed until he felt almost sick and then sat against the wall, head on his bent knees, and breathed through his jittery panic. He was okay. “It’s okay.” Repeated over and over, Snow on the floor looking up at him, Snow looming over him, Snow under him on the bed, moaning his name. “It’s okay.”

It was okay.

When Baz woke up the next morning the curtains were pulled back, bright sunshine making his skin slightly prickle. The window was open wide, and Snow was rushing around, making a bloody lot of noise. Everything was normal. It was okay.

xxx

And so it continued. Snow was like a rabbit with how often he jumped Baz, always urgent, always leaving Baz smelling like smoke and feeling like he had briefly burned. When Snow had first taken Baz in his hand once and Baz had legitimately _whimpered_ , almost coming instantly, Snow had laughed and teased him about being needy. Baz had wanted to say, _you’re the needy one, Snow, and you aren’t even in love_ , but he had been too busy moaning while Snow looked on, transfixed.

They got better too, clumsy hands and bumping teeth smoothing out into knowing the exact angle to tilt their head or the pace they each liked best. Getting off still usually amounted to rutting against each other until they came messily, but sometimes one of them (Snow) would be brave and there’d be skin on sensitive skin. Baz tried not to think about how the feeling of Snow’s hand on his dick would be forever imprinted on his mind.

It was sometime during second term when things escalated again.

Rumors about Wellbelove and an eighth year had been swirling around for a while, and Baz had seen her walking across the lawn with some tall-dark-and-handsome guy, batting her eyelashes up at him to fulfill her ‘schoolgirl with a crush’ role. But he mostly ignored them because it was Wellbelove, he’d experienced his own fair share of her played-up attention that never amounted to anything, and he had more pressing issues to deal with.

He ignored Dev and Niall whispering about Wellbelove ‘putting out’ when Baz joined them at breakfast one day.

He ignored how Snow walked around like he constantly wanted to hit something, his magic feeling particularly volatile. 

He ignored how Snow’s anger made him pettily jealous. It was _Wellbelove_ , Simon could have had her whenever he wanted but no, _now_ he chose to be upset over rumors he didn’t even know were true.

He should not have ignored these things.

When Snow burst through the bedroom door, not unlike that first time, Baz flicked his eyes up, hand freezing on his book page. Snow looked haggard, angry but also on the brink of tears, face twisted and hands shoved into his hair. It wasn’t a good look for him. It made Baz’s chest ache.

“Snow—“

At his name Snow whipped toward Baz, stalking over to stand between his legs. He placed his hands on the back of Baz’s chair, arms bracketing him, and ducked his head. Golden curls filled Baz’s vision.

Baz was, uncharacteristically, at a loss for words. Maybe it was Snow’s barely-contained anger, tense energy vibrating all around him and creeping into Baz’s airspace. Baz carefully set down his book, trying to not shatter the fragile atmosphere. Snow didn’t seem to notice the movement.

The thought of Snow bursting into tears was a little terrifying, but as though Snow heard Baz’s thoughts, he looked up at Baz, eyes red-rimmed but sharp with anger.

“Say something to make me hate you,” Snow gritted out, voice broken and hurt. Baz should’ve just shoved Snow off and stalked out of the room, leaving Snow to get over Wellbelove on his own. They’d get back together eventually, anyway.

Instead Baz said, “Why should I?” and felt a spike of pleasure at the way Snow _growled_ , closing the small distance between their mouths without a word.

Baz could feel Snow’s tears wetting his own cheeks, but he didn’t care, _Merlin_ did he not care, not when Snow was biting and sucking and darting his tongue into Baz’s mouth, dragging him out of the chair and backing him up until Baz’s knees hit a bed, shoving him down and climbing on top of him to get better leverage. Baz had a hand slipped up Simon’s shirt, brushing over his smooth torso. The other he wound into Simon’s hair, twisting into the curls, and Simon moaned into his mouth when Baz tugged on them.

The sound had arousal flowing hot and heavy through Baz’s limbs, had him scrabbling to pull Snow as close as possible. He brushed a finger over one of Snow’s nipples, gasping at the way Snow moaned and pressed down into him in response. He leaned up to press his lips against Snow’s neck, sucking at the skin and leaving a mark high enough that Snow’s uniform wouldn’t cover it.

Baz wanted to mark all of Snow’s golden skin, wanted Snow to look at the bruises and think of Baz. He wanted them to be impossible to overlook, even for Wellbelove with her schoolgirl crush on an eighth year. 

Snow groaned when Baz left a particularly dark mark and dragged Baz up to crush their lips together again. Baz could only keep up Snow’s frantic pace for so long, though, and somewhere along the line his pace slipped from ferocious to languid. Snow made a noise in response and shoved Baz back, looking a lot less sad and a lot more turned on than before, which Baz supposed was an improvement.

“Rougher, Baz. We’re fighting,” Snow said, and Baz felt the disbelief show plainly on his face.

“Now I know why Wellbelove broke up with you – you’re so _demanding_ ,” Baz said, realizing as soon as the words were out he had made a mistake. Snow’s expression darkened, and the hand still in Baz’s hair tightened. But Baz couldn’t stop. “Were you like that in bed, too? Selfish, finishing first and leaving her unsatisfied—

Snow’s hand wrapped around Baz’s throat.

“Shut. Up.” Snow said darkly. Baz wasn’t turned on by this _at all_.

(Maybe he wasn’t fucked yet, but that didn’t mean he didn’t want to be).

“Make me,” Baz said, voice raspy under Snow’s grip.

Then Snow was shoving Baz over, pushing him down into the bed and climbing on top of him, biting at his lips and running his hands up Baz’s shirt and _oh_ brushing his fingers over Baz’s nipples, his leg pressed solidly up against Baz’s crotch and shifting just enough to send waves of pleasure rippling through Baz but not enough to give him any relief.

Baz pulled away from Snow’s lips to breathe, and choked out, “ _Merlin_ , Snow, get on with it.”

Snow licked into Baz’s mouth in response, then leaned back to smirk at him.

“Now who’s demanding?”

Baz did _not have time for this_. “Snow, _please_.”

His arousal came through in his voice, making him sound weak and pleading and—

Baz had the lovely view of Snow’s pupils dilating with want. He traced the motion of Snow licking his lips and barely realized Snow had moved down the bed when he was suddenly palming Baz through his uniform pants.

Baz actually arched off the bed, finally feeling relief, and saw Snow’s satisfied expression through his haze.

“If you think…” Baz panted, trying to look menacing while slowly coming undone under Snow’s hand. “I’m not gonna get you back for this—”

Snow grinned, said in mock-innocence, “I’m only returning the favor,” then leaned down and mouthed against Baz’s dick straining against his pants. Baz cried out and this was so much better than any of his fantasies, _shit_.

“On or off?” Snow asked then, pulling back and thumbing the button on Baz’s pants casually. Much more casually than Baz would’ve been if he were to give someone a blowjob for probably the first time. Baz flushed, had a moment of panic, _why did he bother asking why is he conscientious why is he so relaxed about this what is going on what are we doing_ , and Snow, seeming to sense Baz’s hesitation, pressed down against his clothed dick and then Baz’s thoughts went out the window.

“Off, _off_ , fuck.”

Snow made quick work of the button and zipper, sliding Baz’s pants off his hips and down his legs, throwing them off the side of the bed. Then he was moving down again, mouthing at the seam of Baz’s boxers and the inside of his thighs, keeping his eyes locked coyly on Baz’s the whole time and he knew what he was doing, of course he did, he had to be a tease because this was some twisted sort of fight, loser comes first.

“ _Snow_ ,” Baz warned, and there must’ve been something compelling in his voice because Snow dipped down immediately and pulled Baz’s boxers back enough to free his dick. After a blink of hesitation in which Baz panicked over imagining how one recovered from such an awkward situation, Simon wrapped a hand around the base of Baz’s dick and pumped achingly slowly. Baz grit his teeth around a moan, fisting his hands into the bedspread.

“Something the matter, _Basil_?” Snow asked, drawing out Baz’s name as he continued to pump Baz’s dick, sliding his thumb over the tip but never increasing his pace.  
_I want your mouth on me Snow, please, for the love of Merlin just—_

“Nothing at all, _Simon_ ,” Baz said, voice oddly smooth despite the fact that he was _losing it_ , and it was supposed to be a joke, a mimicry of Snow’s taunt, but Baz watched in wonder as Snow’s eyes widened, his mouth dropping open, his tongue running absently against his kiss-swollen lips.

“Simon,” Baz tried again, and Snow tightened his hand around Baz’s dick, almost as though it was involuntary. Baz sucked a breath through his teeth, trying to hold it together because Snow was flushed from his face down past the collar of his shirt and it seemed Baz had just found his leverage.

“Simon, _please_ ,” Baz whined, half to get one over on Snow, half because he really was desperate for relief, and the groan that erupted out of him as Snow finally leant down and mouthed at Baz’s dick was obscenely loud. 

Snow was clearly new at this, but then so was Baz, and it was more satisfying to know that they were doing this for the first time together than if Snow had been experienced. There was Wellbelove, but considering she and Snow had hardly even kissed Baz assumed not much had happened.

Regardless, Snow wasn’t _bad_ by any means (though Baz wondered briefly in his blissed-out state if one could necessarily _be_ bad at sucking dick, so long as they avoided teeth). Snow’s mouth was hot and wet and when he pressed the flat of his tongue against Baz’s shaft with his mouth still on him Baz saw stars.

One of Snow’s hands was holding Baz’s hip for purchase, and the other worked at the base of Baz’s dick, stroking in time to the movement of Simon’s mouth. Baz could feel arousal curling heavy in his stomach and he reached down to tug on Simon’s hair, to warn him, but Snow batted his hand away and Baz’s breath caught in his throat.

Baz could feel himself tip over the edge, and then he was crying out Snow’s name, crying out Simon, writhing against the sheets and pressing up into Snow’s mouth as white burst in his vision.

When he came down from his orgasm Snow was kneeling, wiping his lips with the back of his hand and very obviously adjusting his pants.

As soon as he caught his breath Baz asked, “Want me to…?”, eloquence gone to shit along with a good portion of his brain, probably.

Snow flushed, and rubbing a hand on the back of his neck said, “I, ah, already…”

It took a second for Baz to decipher out the hanging phrase, but when he did he couldn’t help but laugh. Snow looked annoyed but didn’t say anything, rolling his eyes and sliding back off the bed.

“I’m gonna shower first, considering…” Snow said, and Baz let himself look plainly at the curve of Simon’s ass as he bent over to retrieve something out of a lower drawer.

“Yeah, considering,” Baz said teasingly when Snow straightened up and looked back at him.

Snow’s eyes flicked down for a moment, then back up to meet Baz’s. “Your dick is still out,” he said with a smirk, and then disappeared into the bathroom.

Baz ignored the heat creeping up his neck and sorted himself out, realizing as he looked down at his boxers that they were clean, and what that meant, and Baz was really too tired for the train of thought that accompanied the mental image of Snow swallowing around Baz’s dick as he came.

With the white noise of the shower to drown out his thoughts it was easy for Baz’s eyes to slip closed, and he drifted off into sleep. There was a moment, during the night, when he woke up and thought he felt something warm pressed against his side, but in the morning he was alone in his bed, alone in the room, and tucked under covers he hadn’t fallen asleep beneath.

xxx

Baz went home that weekend. It was a good break for his sanity, but the real reason he had come home was because Fiona had showed up at Watford on Friday and dragged him back.

Apparently, unbeknownst to him and probably most the population of Watford, the Mage had started increasing sanctions and taxes against the Old Families, and duels were breaking out. Resulting in more laws. Resulting in more duels and protests.

What Baz was supposed to do about it, he didn’t know. Maybe Fiona just wanted moral support, someone she could badmouth the Mage to who would at least listen. Who was on her side, even silently. 

Friday night was dinner with his family, as cordial as always, Baz supposed. Saturday was Fiona asking if Baz wanted to come with her to a protest about the new laws. Baz said he had homework, then spent the day lounging around, playing his violin, reading, thinking occasionally of Snow. Sunday was much the same, except in the morning Fiona came home, limping, clothes a mess. Baz’s stepmother had run to her side immediately, Baz’s father close on his heels, both of them looking concerned. She had waved them off, then turned her sharp eyes back on Baz.

“It’s turning into a full-blown war, Basil. You should’ve been there.”

Baz didn’t want to be there, he thought as his father and stepmother ushered Fiona into another room. 

Baz thought about Snow, failingly, blindingly loyal to the Mage and everything he stood for. Baz thought about Fiona, wild, ferocious, risking her life to fight back against injustice. Urging him to join her.

He hated the Mage, hated what the Mage was doing to the Old Families, to _his_ family, what he had done to Watford and the world of Mages.

But he didn’t hate Simon— _Snow_. He didn’t hate Snow. Not really.

Baz was happy to be back at Watford on Monday. His “break” had only made more truths painfully clear. This thing with Snow couldn’t continue.

Except the minute Baz stepped into the room Snow was on him, asking between heated kisses where he was, what he’d been doing, he’d been plotting, hadn’t he, plotting how to destroy him and—

“Morgan’s Tooth, Snow, could you let me breathe?”

Snow looked wild, feral, his eyes blown, his uniform rumpled. Baz calmly walked over and set his bag down on his bed. He felt Snow follow him over, felt his presence smoking and sparking behind him. He turned around with the intention of moving past Snow, making it down in time for the beginning of breakfast, for once. Instead he let himself be pushed back onto the bed, let Snow climb on top of him and press their lips and bodies together, let him dive down and crush Baz’s heart in his fist because Baz could never have _this_. Especially not with Snow. But when Snow’s tongue was brushing against his own and his hands were running through Baz’s hair, Baz didn’t care. He didn’t care about the Mage, or the Old Families, or the World of Mages at all. He didn’t care about anything except drawing as many sounds from Snow as he could so he could replay the melody later and torture himself.

At least they didn’t pretend they were doing this because they were restricted by the anathema anymore. Which meant very little, Baz supposed, except that these interactions weren’t always proceeded by an argument or one of them storming into the room. Sometimes Snow would just get up when Baz came back from class or practice and they’d fall into each other like that was normal, natural, _right_. 

It made Baz cockier, too, enough so that he’d lead on rare occasions, trying to keep it as rough as Snow but knowing he failed, knowing his feelings always came through in his touches and kisses because he was weak, weak for this boy with blue eyes and golden curls.

But Baz figured if he was going to be weak to anyone, his rival made a logical choice.

xxx

Winter came and left, and Baz spent time at home for Christmas with his family for a few weeks before returning to Watford. With spring was football practice again, which meant Baz saw slightly less of Snow during the day. Unsurprisingly, given his track record with not getting attention whenever he wanted it, Snow’s reaction to this was not to see it as an opportunity to take a breather, maybe step back and reassess just what the fuck they were doing. Instead he seemed to slowly lose his mind. Baz had to force himself to not interact directly with Snow when he immediately got back from practice or he’d risk never getting a proper shower in.

It wasn’t _bad_ , by any means, to have Snow practically salivating over him whenever they were in close vicinity. Or eyeing him from across various classrooms. It just didn’t reassure him, either.

(And not because he refused to let himself hope. There was nothing to hope over because it was _lust_ , that’s all it was, Snow had been pushy and needy since they started this and maybe Baz was just tired of feeling used).

Typically, Baz would merely nod in Snow’s direction when he entered their room before heading straight into the shower. He had to eliminate any hesitation, any moment of pause, or else Snow would jump on it. When he entered the room today he did the same, eyes flicking to Snow laying on his bed, staring at the ceiling in concentration. Snow glanced up when Baz walked in, eyes thoughtful, heavy gaze tracking him as he walked into the bathroom.

No, it certainly wasn’t a problem that Snow wanted him. It was the opposite of a problem. Baz just had to get his head out of his arse and stop wanting what he couldn’t have.

Baz showered quickly, pushing errant thoughts down as far as they could go. Throwing a towel around his shoulders when he was done he re-entered their bedroom, eyes immediately flicking to Snow’s bed. Snow was still where he had been, and Baz stared at him for a moment before throwing his dirty clothes in his hamper so he could spell them clean later and pulling on a shirt.

Snow still hadn’t moved when Baz was done, and it was making Baz jumpy; he kept expecting Snow to suddenly leap up and charge him like he had been. But Snow just continued to lay there, motionless. Baz didn’t have the patience for this.

“What is it?” he asked, walking over to sit heavily on his bed across from Snow and lean back on his hands. Snow was silent for a moment before he wordlessly got up and sat down next to Baz. The action caught Baz off guard because it was so precise and controlled, so unlike how Snow had been moving around him. But then he was shoving at Snow and grumbling, “Get off my bed,” because he still hated people on his bed (save Snow at night, he supposed, but those were circumstances all their own). Snow responded by leaning his full weight against Baz’s side, until Baz stopped struggling.

Baz still hated people on his bed, but the heat of Snow against his side was more comforting than he wanted to admit.

They sat in silence for so long Baz wondered if Snow was sick or cursed or something. But then Snow shifted and asked,

“Why don’t we talk about things?” 

And again, Baz was caught off guard; he felt his eyes widen ever slightly before he averted them from Snow’s annoyingly piercing gaze and shrugged the shoulder Snow wasn’t leaning against. How did Snow – bloody _dense_ Snow – come up with things like this? _Why don’t we talk about things_ – maybe because they were too busy getting each other off to have a genuine conversation, maybe because they’d hated each other for the past 7 years and were still supposed to hate each other now, maybe because they had nothing in common and were _enemies_ , dammit, maybe because there was nothing they could talk about that wouldn’t lead to a fight.

“What is there to talk about?”

“Lots of stuff!” Snow said, sounding kind of put out. Baz felt him lean back from his shoulder. “Families, hobbies, random thoughts, hopes, dreams…”

Baz’s gaze was still turned away from Snow, but he was listening. It was ridiculous – they _did_ talk, trivialities, sure, but as if Snow would sit and listen to him complain about his family, as if he’d want to sit and complain to Snow about his family. How did he even know he could trust Snow with personal information, with him still so close to the Mage? This whole discussion could just be Snow working for the Mage, attempting to get information from Baz – how did Baz know Snow wouldn’t run as soon as Baz gave verbal confirmation of something that could be used against him or his family.

Snow had been loyal to the Mage for a lot longer than he’d been after Baz, and lust had no interest in personal secrets. Only people did.

With a huge sigh Baz turned back to Snow.

“We’re enemies,” he said, because it was true. Snow shrugged.

“Truce?”

Baz heaved another sigh. “Fine. What would you like to talk about, Snow?” he asked, hoping he sounded bored enough to pass for uninterested in where the conversation was going. Snow didn’t say anything at first, gaping at Baz like he was surprised Baz conceded.

“Um… uh… what’s… your favorite color?” Snow asked, wincing even as the words were coming out of his mouth. Baz rolled his eyes.

“Really, Snow? You want to run through all the pleasantries and icebreakers we abandoned back in first year? What would you like to know next – which animal best matches my personality or what I want to be when I grow up?”

“At least I’m trying! It’s not like I can just start asking you about your mother or being a—“

Snow froze, mouth open. Baz quirked an eyebrow to disguise the slight panic rushing through him. Was this it? Baz would lie, of course, he’d been “I don’t know what you’re talking about”-ing for as long as Snow had been on him about being a vampire. But he’d know this was an interrogation thinly disguised as a conversation.

“Being a…?” Baz prompted, turning back to see Snow now avoiding his eyes.

“Being… being a… good wizard?”

Baz snorted, and inside wasn’t relief, per say, because obviously Snow wouldn’t be _that_ dense that he’d ask it out of the blue. He clearly had no idea how to have a conversation, anyway – Bunce probably steered the ship, there, but Baz couldn’t imagine what it was like when Snow and Wellbelove were on a date (painfully awkward and stiff, he hoped). But he hadn’t asked. That was something.

Shifting so he was leaning back against the pillows and throwing his legs up on Snow’s lap to piss him off, Baz said, “Why don’t you just ask? About my mother or,” he punctuated the phrase with a wave of his hand. “Whatever else you want to know?”

Snow blinked at him, laying his hands absentmindedly on Baz’s legs and looking down at them.

“I didn’t know I could.”

The phrase was said with such quiet finality, with such melancholy, it made Baz pause. Snow wasn’t that good of an actor. Or a liar. But he could still have ulterior motives. Probably did. Baz shouldn’t trust him. 

(But _oh_ , did he want to, seeing the grimace on Snow’s face that spoke of wasted years and pulled silenced hopes out of Baz).

“Consider this me giving you permission, then, if it makes you feel better,” he said.

Simon stared over at Baz, mouth hung open.

“Really?” he asked, and Baz hated how the wonder in his voice made something in Baz’s stomach flutter.

Baz nodded.

“And you’ll answer?”

“Probably not,” Baz said, smirking. A lie – Baz felt like if Snow asked him something the answer would spill out of Baz before he could do anything about it. But Snow didn’t need to know that.

Snow laughed in response, and what a glorious thing to see, head thrown back and the curve of his throat on display, curls a loose halo around his head. When his eyes fell back to Baz’s, Snow smiled, and before Baz knew what he was doing he’d reached out and grabbed Snow’s wrist, pulling him forward and down. Snow fell easily, struggling until he was sitting up on Baz’s lap.

“What’re you—“

“You’ve been needy, lately,” Baz said, leaning in to whisper into Snow’s ear. He had a moment of clarity when he worried he may’ve misread the change in the atmosphere, but then he heard Snow’s breath catch in his throat and he was sliding his hands up Snow’s shirt to press against his back, press him closer. 

Baz leaned down to mouth at Snow’s neck, then ran his teeth gently along the curve of Snow’s collarbone before moving up to press their lips together. Snow gasped into his mouth, shifting forward on his lap. One of Baz’s hands slipped down to grab at Snow’s ass, drawing a moan from Snow as he rocked his hips forward into Baz’s.

“What do you want, Simon?” Baz asked, mind hazy with pleasure and the heat of Snow pressing incessantly against him.

Baz reached a hand down to palm him through his jeans, and Snow’s hands were tangled in Baz’s hair and he was whimpering into his neck, still rocking against Baz. Baz shifted up against the pillows, hoisting Snow up in the process and making them both cry out at the friction, and suddenly Snow was speaking.

“I want you to _fuck me_.”

Baz stilled for a millisecond, mind trying to process the words through his arousal, and then the was crashing forward, pressing his lips urgently to Snow’s and pushing him down until Snow was on his back on the bed, Baz leaning over him. Baz pressed his body down against Snow’s, rocking into him, feeling waves of pleasure shudder through him and making his head spin.

Every time Snow moaned or gasped a thrill shot through Baz; he drank up every reaction, lost himself in the sounds of pleasure and the heat of Snow below him, the way he could feel Snow’s desire in every shift, every kiss. 

“ _Baz_ …”

And fuck, Baz couldn’t stop imagining what it would be like to actually be fully naked with Snow, to be _inside_ of him or vice versa. Now he was the one losing his mind, and it was all Snow’s fault.

Baz rucked up Snow’s shirt and nipped his chest, sucking at his nipples and rubbing his thumbs in circles comfortingly on Snow’s hipbones while Snow writhed under him. He felt a hand tug on his hair and he let it guide him, let himself be pulled back up so he could press his lips against Snow’s and press his body down against him until they had a familiar motion, until they were moving frantically.

It would be like this, if they did it, only better. More. He’d be Snow’s first. He wanted to be his last. Below him Snow cried out, and then Baz saw an image of Snow riding him, curls wild, dick bouncing against his stomach as he sat up tall, head thrown back like it was earlier, but instead of a laugh he’d be crying out Baz’s name with desire and adoration and _love_. 

Baz’s pleasure was mounting as he returned to reality, to Snow under him, whimpering his name nonsensically, until it crested and he came with a cry, burying his face in Snow’s neck as he rode out the tremors wracking his body. 

When the white had faded from his vision Baz pulled away from Snow’s neck to meet his eyes. Snow was breathing heavy, but he had a soft look in his eyes, nearly unbearable because of how it made Baz’s heart hurt. Bringing a hand up to card through Baz’s hair, Snow sighed softly.

“I was serious, you know,” he whispered. Baz froze.

“Simon…” he started, then shook his head. He couldn’t… _they_ couldn’t…

In the heat of the moment Baz may’ve got caught up in a fantasy, but he wasn’t naive enough to believe that they’d go that far.

(Or, if they did, that it’d mean something. That it’d mean _anything_.)

“It’s not… it doesn’t have to be a thing, okay? We don’t have to talk about it,” Snow said, voice small but eyes determined.

Baz sighed heavily, pushing himself up until he was sitting. Snow sat up too, crawling over until he was leaning on Baz again.

“Didn’t you just say you wanted to talk?”

“Yeah, but—”

“Look, this isn’t… what you’re talking about isn’t like what we’ve been doing.”

“Why can’t it be?” Snow asked, frowning when Baz rolled his eyes.

They sat in silence for a few moments, then Baz sighed and ran a hand over his face.

“What are we doing?” he said, not expecting Snow to respond. He knew neither of them knew the answer.

Snow shrugged. “So?” he asked, ever stubborn. Baz didn’t want to think about why Snow was being so insistent about this, didn’t want to consider that Snow just wanted to get laid – really, truly laid. Snow _wanted him_. And he wanted Snow. Wasn’t that enough?

Baz just shook his head again, trying to clear away the annoying thoughts that prickled at the back of his mind. After a moment he sighed and said, “Okay”, trying not to look too upset when Simon smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cross-posted on tumblr: carry-on--simon.tumblr.com/post/145366084330/to-get-to-you-part-24


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Sorry for the slight delay on this part - I wanted to edit it a bit more, and I had work all day yesterday and couldn’t get to the formatting until today :L
> 
> Thank you, as always, for all the wonderful feedback. I’m honestly floored by the nice comments, they mean so much!
> 
> There’s just one chapter left after this! We’ve come so far :’) Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter!

The weekend Baz disappeared was the weekend Simon saw the Mage for the first time that year.

He received the summons early Saturday morning and blearily made his way up to the Mage’s office. It was grey and raining outside as Simon climbed the stone steps, typical spring Watford weather. When he reached the large, intimidating wooden door, it was slightly ajar; he pushed it gently, hearing it squeak, and peeked his head in the office.

The Mage was sitting at his desk, head down, writing furiously.

“Sir?” Simon said, wondering if he had just dreamt the summons and if he was supposed to be here at all. But the Mage waved him in without looking up from his desk, and Simon found himself once more in the familiar chair opposite the Mage’s desk.

Simon liked the Mage’s office – it was high-ceilinged and decorated with elaborately carved wood paneling. The walls were lined with tall bookshelves packed with ancient-looking books, dusty and worn. Behind the Mage’s desk was a large window that overlooked the great lawn, and today it was covered in a sheen of rain droplets, giving the outside world a shifting, ghostly appearance, a contrast to the shadowed warmth of the office.

Despite the grandeur of the office, the Mage was hardly there, and the desk was empty save for a few pens and a flip calendar decades old stuck perpetually on August 12th. Simon thought if he were the Mage he’d never leave the office except for meals, but then the Mage didn’t really fit among the books and the dark green carpeting – Simon always assumed he used the room out of a sense of expectation rather than because he liked it.

While the Mage continued to ignore Simon, Simon’s mind drifted, imagining how many students and headmasters had sat in their exact positions. Simon knew Baz’s mother had been the headmaster before the Mage – he wondered if she fit better in this office, if she used it, what it would’ve been like to sit here before her instead of the Mage.

Except if Baz’s mother had been headmaster, Simon wouldn’t have been allowed to come to Watford. He’d still be wondering why things exploded or caught on fire whenever he got upset. He never would’ve met Penny, or Agatha, or their families. Or Baz. He never would’ve roomed with Baz. He never would’ve fought a chimera with Baz, or been pushed down the stairs by Baz, or spent a good amount of his waking and sleeping moments wondering if Baz was going to try and kill him. Imagining his graceful hands wrapped around his throat, wondering if it would just be easier to give in so he wouldn’t have to worry about this “Chosen One” business, because maybe if he was gone the Humdrum would stop terrorizing people, maybe it would be as purposeless as Simon would be without it. Its existence would be invalidated. It—

“Simon.”

The Mage’s familiar sharp tone cut through Simon’s thoughts, and Simon hoped his face didn’t betray what he’d been thinking about. Luckily, the Mage still appeared distracted, looking past Simon’s right shoulder as though searching for a talking point in the spines of the books lining the room.

“Sir?”

“I presume you don’t know why I called you here today?”

Simon shook his head. The Mage hardly ever _checked in_ – a meeting with Simon was typically because he had a task for Simon or information of some kind for him. Which was fine – Simon knew the Mage was busy, and they had never had the kind of relationship that made Simon expect any type of consistent interest in his personal life.

(He still couldn’t help but wonder if Baz’s mother would treat Baz with as much formality, keeping him at a distance unless she needed him for something, treating him more like an ally than a son, if she were headmaster.

But that was ridiculous. The Mage wasn’t Simon’s father. It was different).

The Mage shook his head and stood up, assuming a stoic position in front of the large window and looking out across the lawn.

“There have been riots, Simon, and duels. The Old Families are getting worse.”

 _We’re at war, Simon_. Simon remembered when the Mage had said that to him several years ago, before Simon understood the full extent of the conflict, when the Humdrum was just a frightening monster on the periphery of his vision and the chaos in his life seemed to be coming to a peak. By now it was unsurprising that the Old Families continued to fight the Mage’s administration; Simon was more concerned that Baz disappeared the very weekend when things became bad enough for the Mage to call him in for a meeting.

“There has been talk of a full-scale rebellion, and the Old Families are threatening to pull their children out of Watford,” the Mage said, turning back to Simon. “With the Humdrum growing stronger every day and the dark creatures constantly a threat, we do not have the convenience of infighting. It makes us weak, vulnerable. Do you understand, Simon?”

Simon nodded. He had been telling Penny for years that he didn’t understand why the Old Families were more concerned with grabbing power than making sure the World of Mages wasn’t destroyed. The Mage said they were so concerned with maintaining the structures of the past they couldn’t see the present. Simon thought they were just self-centered.

“I am at the end of my rope. My position is safe, for now, but we need some way of compelling the Old Families to fall back in line.”

The Mage’s large hand smacked down onto Simon’s shoulder and gripped tightly. Simon looked up to meet his eyes; the expression on the Mage’s face was something between desperation and intimidation. It said, “You _will_ help me.”

Simon usually enjoyed when the Mage sent him out on a mission – it made him feel important and powerful, like the Mage trusted him even though his magic was unruly. But something about the situation today was making Simon worried.

The Mage stared at Simon for a moment before he stepped back suddenly, turning toward the bookcases and scanning the spines.

“How is your roommate, Simon?”

Simon’s heart jerked in his chest, leaping somewhere up near his throat and making it impossible to breath or swallow for what seemed like an eternity. The Mage tapped the spine of a book before pulling it out of the bookshelf, bringing a cloud of dust with it. He turned slightly and opening the book, flipping through the pages, eyes not moving across the page.

“Fine, sir,” Simon managed to choke out eventually, and the Mage slammed the book in his hands shut.

“Yes, I’m sure he is. You know Natasha Pitch – his mother, incorrigible woman, not unlike him, I assume – used to be headmaster here? She worked in this very office, sat at that very desk, restricted entry to Watford on the basis of race and secured the position of the Old Families only a few years ago in this very building. Without her leading them, their power was shaken, of course, but like an infestation they remain to fester and grow.”  
Simon swallowed heavily – the Mage typically got worked up whenever the topic of the Old Families came up, and although Simon hated the Old Families, too, it was still terrifying to see the Mage’s eyes light up in barely contained fury.

The Mage had returned to his desk chair, standing behind it with a hand on the back. He appraised Simon, then said,

“Does Basilton speak of his mother?”

Simon shook his head. “No, sir. We don’t… um, we don’t talk much.”

A hint of a mirthless smile quirked at the corner of the Mage’s lips. He sighed and sat down heavily.

“Well, seven years, don’t you think it might be time to change that?”

“Sir?”

“Information, Simon. You have access to a direct connection to the Old Families, containing a wealth of information. I’m surprised you haven’t thought about exploiting it before now.”

 _I have_ , Simon thought. _I followed him around for a year. There was nothing_.

“Anything that could be of use against the Old Families, specifically the bigger players such as Basilton’s family, is key. Whatever you have to do to get the information – play nice, pretend you’re on his side, anything – I need you to do it, Simon. For the good of Watford, for the good of the World of Mages.”

Multiple things ran through Simon’s mind at that point: One, that “play nice” sounded like a euphemism, especially when he thought about what he and Baz had been doing, but that the Mage probably wouldn’t expect Simon to go to such lengths to get access to any information Baz had, so he probably didn’t know what they had been doing. Two, that the whole assignment made Simon kind of queasy and guilty, even though he hadn’t done anything yet. And Three, that Simon knew with almost full confidence that Baz was a vampire – he could tell the Mage, have him deal with the proof, and be done with this.

Simon imagined what would happen if he told the Mage what he knew.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea, Sir?”

The Mage’s gaze went instantly dark with frustration.

“Do you understand the position you’re in right now? This is an untapped opportunity I’ve been saving for a moment just like this.”

Wait— “An _opportunity you’ve been saving_? What does that mean?”

“Of course, the crucible cast you two together, but I knew if I ever needed quick access to the Old Families…” the Mage said, clasping his hands together.

Simon knew, logically, he and Baz were pawns (powerful, important pawns, but still pawns), but it was still shocking to have it so blatantly thrown into his face.

The Mage seemed to take Simon’s silence as affirmation, because he pushed on.

“I trust you won’t have any trouble with this?”

If Simon were a year or two younger, it would’ve been impossible. It didn’t really seem all that feasible now – Simon and Baz fooled around, but they didn’t talk, and what few words they exchanged were never about deep, blackmail-worthy family secrets.

“No, sir.”

Simon mostly wanted to leave the presence of the Mage, and the office that now felt overwhelmingly elaborate, the history and ghosts of headmasters pressing down on Simon’s lungs.

The Mage shot Simon a smile that was almost proud, then got up to see Simon out.

Simon had a hand on the doorknob when the Mage stopped him.

“Oh, and Simon? How is Agatha?”

Simon’s hand froze on the cold metal.

“She’s fine, sir,” he said, voice steady.

“Good, good. I always liked her.”

Simon opened the door to hide his wince, the wrong face flashing through his mind.

“Me too, sir.”

xxx

The rest of the weekend passed in a blur of homework and tension-filled worrying. When Baz showed up Monday morning, something in Simon snapped. He _may’ve_ been a little aggressive, but Baz laughed against his lips when Simon attacked him, like even with Simon’s roughness the greeting was a nice surprise.

“I was visiting home,” Baz said later, when Simon gave him enough space to actually unpack his small bag.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were leaving?”

Simon expected Baz to snap at him, _It’s none of your business_ , but Baz just turned and walked closer to him, bringing a hand up to grasp Simon’s jaw.

Baz ran the pad of his thumb over the uneven, rough skin of Simon’s lip Simon had spent all weekend worrying between his teeth. Simon swallowed.

“Were you _worried_ , Snow?” 

There was no reason for Simon to flush at Baz’s question, but he felt his face heat anyway. He pulled out of Baz’s hand, then shook his head. “No.”

Baz didn’t look convinced, but he let it drop, shrugging and returning to his bag while Simon escaped down to breakfast, catching the very last of the scones. It was only when he was down at a table with Penny, trying to eat his normal amount of breakfast in a quarter of the time he usually had, that the stress of the weekend washed off his shoulders. And suddenly, where there was only buzzing tension and worry there were now _thoughts_. Realizations. Clarity, to a certain extent. And an aching feeling in his chest. His eyes flicked over to Baz, across the hall.

He wasn’t used to being this _hungry_ , and he wondered for a moment if this was what Baz felt like if he didn’t feed – so unbelievably hungry for something it was all you could think about some days, and so hungry that when you finally got it you only seemed to craved it more.

Ever since that day Simon had sucked Baz off – had _gotten off_ to sucking Baz off – after fighting with Agatha (it was an argument about her and an eight year who looked far too much like Baz for Simon’s comfort, rumors that probably weren’t true, and the dramatized disintegration of their planned future together thrown in for good measure; nothing really of note, but it had made Simon worked up enough that he’d needed _something_ from Baz, a reaction or a declaration Simon could repurpose as reassurance that he was wanted, even in purely physical terms) every thought of Baz was more intense, and there existed within him an urging for _more_.  
Baz disappearing did nothing to help Simon’s restlessness, and he worried whatever jittery, unstable feeling that rolled through him and made him pushier and more urgent would freak Baz out, make him pull back and make things awkward, but it didn’t; Baz continued to match his pressure like nothing was different, like Simon wasn’t nearly overflowing with want.

And that was a surprise. That he could even label part of his feelings for Baz as something other than hatred or annoyance or suspicion. _Want_. Simon wasn’t a stranger to that feeling – he had wanted Agatha for long before they had started dating, and when they had been together. With Agatha it was a different sort of want, though, a longing for the life he would have with her rather than an excessively present-minded focus on how she looked and spoke and moved, a fiery desire that ran through him and made him long for _something_.

Maybe it was the certainty of their future that made Simon so desperate to hold on to every moment. He hated Baz, (or he _did_ , but Simon couldn’t deal with the thought that his feelings had changed so drastically, not when they had been so strong, and still were, even if in a different way). But he was used to Baz as a part of his life by now, knew how to handle him when he was brooding over a difficult spell or smiling to himself over particularly interesting wordplay or pissing Simon off.

When their lives inevitably split in the future, who would keep an eye on Baz, make sure he didn’t get too involved with the Old Families? Who would be there to—

What? What did Simon really do other than watch Baz, get angry at him or because of him, wait for him to slip up so he could report him to the Mage? And kiss him, now, and get him off. That wasn’t much – someone else could easily fill that hole. Simon was replaceable, at least with respect to fooling around, maybe even with respect to their rivalry. The thought made his mouth taste sharply of metal. 

And if Simon killed Baz, well, hadn’t been the plan all along? What else could there be? What else did he want?

(Simon knew he could come up with an answer if he thought about that question enough, but he didn’t, because it was too much, because it disrupted how his life was planned to go, because it made him doubt who he was and what he stood for. So he didn’t think about it).

 _Want_. What Simon did think about was that he wanted Baz. That was safe – at least sometimes. Simon let himself think about how he wanted Baz’s lips against his, Baz’s tongue in his mouth, his hands on him and his body pressing up against him, Simon wanted all of that. And that was okay – he already had that. So Baz was a boy and Simon didn’t know if that meant he was gay or bi or something else altogether, but it was easier to think about how he was attracted to his male roommate than it was to think about why he was attracted to Baz, his evil roommate who was probably a vampire and his rival whom Simon had hated ( _still hated_ ) for years. Whom Simon was supposed to kill. Whom Simon _would_ kill.

Simon couldn’t want a life other than the one he had wanted for so long – Agatha, a stable job, kids, living in the country if they could afford it. Simon told himself he had never imagined a life with Baz – they would have to fight, really fight, one day, and one of them would end up dead. Simon’s meeting with the Mage had made that ever more clear. Simon couldn’t want a life where he continued to wake up curled against Baz, morning sunlight peeking through the curtains and slicing their bare chests with a cut of light, where he continued to wake up warm and content and continued to nose into the hair at the nape of Baz’s neck and breathe in, memorizing the smell for later because he knew he could never have this again. He shouldn’t even have this now.

He did, though. Simon snuck into Baz’s bed whenever he couldn’t sleep, which was often; once he had imagined reaching and hand out and pulling Baz to him, pulling him down into the sheets and tangling their limbs together, he couldn’t let the image slip from his mind. But this wasn’t _want_ as he had previously known it with Baz, and it wasn’t the want he felt for Agatha and that life. This desire was something else, something weighty and significant and warm and frightening. And it inspired an action not justifiable by hatred and the anathema.

So Simon slipped out of bed every morning before Baz woke up. And he pretended he didn’t notice Baz observing him more closely, warily, in the mornings. He knew Baz knew. But Baz never brought it up, so neither did Simon. Part of him still felt like Baz was saving the knowledge to use against Simon later, a weak point to exploit. Another part of him knew Baz didn’t bring it up because it was significant, it wasn’t bruises and bites and marks, it was something soft and comforting and warm and they weren’t that. They couldn’t be.

And they could never have the life Simon didn’t let himself imagine.

But Simon took what he could get now – heated kisses that left him shaky, bodies shifting against each other and hands slipping down and hot mouths and bite marks and bruises and release that carried him over for a day or two before he felt a desperate pull every time he looked at Baz. And secretly pressing himself against Baz’s back, pulling himself closer if a nightmare woke him up, sighing in Baz’s scent and pretending like this was a legitimate, uncomplicated part of his life.

The rest of the time Simon went on as normal – going to class, spending time with Penny (and Agatha again, too, dreading, for once, when she came to him and wanted to get back together, dreading what he would do, what he would say, even if he knew exactly what would happen because they always got back together in the end). Except Simon couldn’t get his conversation with the Mage out of his head, and not because of the Mage’s request itself – Simon would deal with that later, or _not_ deal with it. It was, _seven years, don’t you think it might be time to change that?_ , a joke, Simon knew, but it struck him as significant that he and Baz hardly talked about anything significant in seven years together. There were occasional moments – fighting the chimera, down in the catacombs, that one time Baz had come back in the middle of the night and frightened Simon so much he went off and almost flooded their room – but for the most part they traded only jabs and taunts. 

But they didn’t _talk_. It had never really bothered Simon before because he knew Baz – you can’t live with someone for seven years and not know them. Except there was probably a lot he didn’t know, and wouldn’t know, unless they talked.

Did Simon want that?

It was a stupid idea, a stupid train of thought, Baz probably didn’t want to talk to him, not when they were enemies (but where they, really? Had they ever been? Simon didn’t really know anymore). But an idea being stupid had never stopped Simon from carrying it out in the past.

So he’d waited around in their room, thinking about school and the Mage and Baz, until Baz had come back, finished showering, and was sat on the bed opposite Simon.

And he’d brought it up, went and sat down next to Baz and found his bravery in the comforting heat of Baz against his side.

They’d come off better for it, he thought, although it was surprising how easily Baz conceded, gave Simon permission to ask whatever he wanted. Simon assumed Baz had ulterior motives, an assignment akin to what the Mage had asked of Simon; after all, Simon couldn’t imagine Baz legitimately wanting to have in-depth conversations, but then Simon never expected he’d want to, either. 

As they’d shifted from talking into _doing_ , though, something about Baz’s confidence, the way he’d pointed out Simon’s neediness with satisfied assurance tined with wonder, made Simon feel like he was coming apart. And then Baz had asked what he wanted, and a thousand things flashed through Simon’s mind, a thousand things he could never say, most of which he couldn’t even begin to describe, but all boiling down to the person palming him through his jeans and gripping his ass. _You_ , Simon had thought in myriad terms, and then he’d lost control of his brain-to-mouth function and it had slipped out.

That didn’t mean he didn’t want it.

He’d not _not_ thought about it. And the more he thought about it, as the aftershocks of pleasure rippled through him, the more he warmed to the idea. He said as much, argued with Baz because it was just like what they’d been doing, sort of, and even tried to reassure him they didn’t have to talk about it – maybe talking about _this_ after just talking about communication was freaking Baz out, maybe he just wanted this to be physical like it was at the beginning. 

But in the end he’d agreed. _They’d_ agreed.

xxx

Simon didn’t really forget about their conversation, their _agreement_ , but it fell to the back of his mind for a while.

School occupied a lot of his focus, and then there was another Humdrum attack out of the blue – hordes of dark creatures poured out of the Wood in the middle of Watford’s spring festival and attacked the crowds. When Simon and Penny had run to see if they could find the Humdrum, they only found a goblin trap, and barely escaped through some combination of Penny’s skill and Simon going off. By the time they returned most of the commotion had died down, and the Mage was making an announcement in front of the gathered crowd. 

Simon spotted Baz standing a ways off from the throng of students with Agatha. And it was stupid – he wasn’t even with her anymore – but jealousy coursed through him, worse than when he’d fought with Agatha about that eighth year and Baz. He’d yelled _You couldn’t have him, so you settled for a lookalike_ , and Agatha had yelled back _It’s called a type, Simon_ , but she hadn’t denied it. Hadn’t denied that she’d wanted Baz, that she still wanted him.

Jealousy always coursed through Simon whenever he saw them together, every time Baz cut in while they were dancing and left Simon standing alone, every time Agatha defended Baz when Simon complained about him, every time Baz watched them when they were together with this dark look on his face like he wanted nothing more than to split them up. Even from a distance Simon could see Baz mutter something to Agatha with a smirk on his face, leaning down closer to her so she could hear him over the Mage. He saw Agatha laugh, tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, and smile up at Baz. White noise rushing in his ears, Simon strode quickly over, Penny on his heels.

When he reached them Agatha looked up, startled, but Baz just turned and appraised Simon’s dirtied uniform with a smirk.

“Fancy seeing you here, Snow. I assumed you’d be off still fighting the Humdrum.”

Simon opened his mouth to reply, but then Agatha’s concerned face was filling his vision, her hand gripping his arm tightly.

“Simon, are you okay? What happened?” she asked, eyes scanning Simon’s face for signs of injury.

“Goblins. Which you’d both know if you’d been there to help!” Penny said, walking over to stand on Simon’s other side. Agatha didn’t reply, only shifted closer to Simon, her hand still gripping his arm as though she were afraid to let him go.

Baz shrugged casually, eyes flicking to Simon’s face and then down to Agatha’s hand on his arm. He sneered, slightly. “I wasn’t invited.”

A familiar tension rippled in the air as Simon locked eyes with Baz. 

“I’m just glad you guys are okay. I don’t know why you always run off like that,” Agatha said, tugging slightly on Simon’s sleeve until he tore his eyes away from Baz. “I’d be so worried if something happened to you.”

The upset in her eyes was genuine, and Simon felt his mood soften. It was out of habit that Simon wanted to console her, wanted to wrap her in a hug and tell her he’d be fine, they’d be fine, one day the danger would be gone and they’d have a normal life. He didn’t, though. He wasn’t sure he believed the words enough anymore for them to reassure her.

“Don’t worry, _Agatha_ ,” Baz said suddenly, mockingly, and Simon’s gaze flew to the challenging curl of his lip. “He’s the Chosen One. Nothing will happen to him – nothing _fatal_ , anyway – because then who would defeat the Humdrum and save the day?”

It was bait, pure provocation, but Simon was already on edge and he fell easily for it.

“You guys are on a first-name basis now? Really?”

“Is that a problem? Are you _jealous_ , Snow?”

“I’m not jealous! Maybe I’m just pissed the guy who only ever refers to everyone with their last name is suddenly calling my girlfriend by her _first_!”

“ _Ex_ -girlfriend.”

“Can you guys please not fight right now?” Agatha snapped, tugging hard on Simon’s arm until he backed away from Baz. He hadn’t even realized they had been inching closer during their argument. On Simon’s left Penny nodded, turning to Simon and leaning close to him.

“The last thing you want is to go off in this crowd, right?” she said quietly. She was right, but her words only made Simon bristle even more.

He shook off Penny’s arm and stepped back. “ _Right_ , of course. Because what was useful just a minute ago when we were fighting the goblins is embarrassing now.”

“You _know_ that’s not what I meant—“

“Bunce is right, Snow. Wouldn’t want you burning the place down because you got your feelings hurt,” Baz sneered, and once more Simon felt something snap. He shook out of Agatha’s arm and turned to face Baz, his vision tunneling.

“You’re a prick,” he spat.

“It’s pronounced ‘Pitch’.”

Simon’s hand was curled in Baz’s collar – he didn’t know how it had gotten there, or when he had shoved into Baz’s space until they were a breath apart.

“Fuck you,” Simon said, hating how the dark glint in Baz’s eyes and the snarl in his smile turned him on as much as it pissed him off.

“I thought it was going to be the other way around?”

Simon’s eyes went wide at the whispered words, and he used his grip on Baz’s collar to shove him back, hooking a foot around his ankle so he fell hard, sprawling on the grass. There was a gasp from behind him – Agatha, probably – but Simon’s vision was still locked on Baz. He stared down at him in silence for a few moments, chest heaving with rage and arousal. Baz returned his stare, leaning back on his hands casually like it had been his choice to end up on the ground. Simon hated that. Simon hated him.

He stalked off without a word, ignoring Penny and Agatha’s calls, all the way back to his room.

The worst part of it all, he thought as he waited, was that Baz could still be fucking with him. Or using him. Simon had never really stopped to consider why Baz continued with this thing they were doing – why _wouldn’t_ Baz do it just to get leverage over Simon. It’s the kind of thing Baz would do, as Simon’s enemy, as a vampire, as a Pitch. That little interaction earlier proved nothing had _really_ changed between them – Baz was still obviously after Agatha, determined to take her from Simon and rub it in his face. Whatever they were doing was just a fling, or just Baz waiting until Simon was truly vulnerable The thought tied Simon’s stomach in a knot and he hated that, too, because it was never supposed to be Baz making him needy and jealous. That hadn’t… that hadn’t been the plan.

There had never been a plan, but that hadn’t been it.

It was a while before Simon heard steps on the staircase, but he got up instantly when Baz entered the room.

“What was that?” he demanded, fuming as Baz calmly removed his shoes and shrugged out of his uniform sweater.

“What?” Baz said finally, sitting down on his bed and pulling off his socks. “I’m not the one who made a scene because his ex-girlfriend was talking to another boy.”

Baz’s hands moved to his shirt, now, and Simon’s eyes watched as his fingers slowly undid button after button.

“I didn’t make a scene. And why were you talking to Agatha, anyway? Why are you _always_ talking to Agatha, always dragging her away from me—”

“ _Dragging her away_ — Snow, she makes her own choices.”

Half of Baz’s shirt was unbuttoned now, revealing the cut of his collarbone and the smooth, pale expanse of his chest. Simon swallowed heavily.

“You’re still baiting her,” he said around the dryness in his throat. “And why – just to get to me? Do you really hate me that much?”

Baz froze on the last button, looking up at Simon with a frighteningly blank expression. Then he laughed, drily, and easily undid the last button, letting his shirt fall behind him onto the bed. Wordlessly he stood up and headed toward the bathroom, but Simon stopped him with a hand on his arm.

“Wait—“

“ _What_ , Snow?” Baz snarled, whirling on Simon. “Do you want to _talk_ some more? I’ll provide some topics you can choose from. Your romanticized relationship with Wellbelove based solely on an idealized “happy ending” that is _unobtainable_. Your idolization of the Mage that influences nearly every choice you make. Your inability to correctly interpret yours or others’ feelings for what they really are. Shall I go on?”

The words cut through Simon and he jerked back, gritting his teeth.

“Fine. Go hide and avoid confrontation like you always do. I’m done,” Simon said, walking toward the door. He had to get out of this room and away from Baz and away from whatever was making his chest feel like it was splitting apart.

Something knocked into him from behind, then, and pressed him flat against the door.

“Here,” Baz gritted into his ear, shoving Simon’s face against the wood. “Here’s your confrontation. Let’s do it, right now.” He shoved Simon’s legs apart with his own, pressing Simon’s body into the door with his full weight. “Let’s hash out all our frustration without the anathema barring us from Watford. That was the original excuse, right? That way we can pretend like we both don’t know what we’re doing so you can comfortably no-homo your way into a proper, acceptable future with your fair maiden of a wife and your two kids in the countryside.”

Simon’s mind was cloudy with anger and the heat of Baz pressing against him, but the words still registered, hitting much too close to home. And maybe Simon shouldn’t have avoided talking about this, should’ve brought up his doubts about what he really wanted – right now or in the future. But he was angry and panicked, and jealousy over seeing Baz and Agatha together was still at the forefront of his mind.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” he yelled, struggling under Baz. At his words Baz abruptly pulled back and Simon spun around, getting one hand on the doorknob.

He didn’t expect to see the fight drain from Baz’s eyes when he turned around, replaced with something akin to hurt.

“Of course you don’t,” Baz spat, gaze falling to the floor.

“Baz…” Simon began, reaching a hand out. Baz’s eyes shot up to his, sharp and closed-off.

“Don’t. Don’t bother,” he said, then spun and disappeared into the bathroom. Sighing, Simon unclenched his hand from the doorknob and forced himself to walk into the room and lay down on his bed. He didn’t look up when Baz entered, but was unsurprised when he heard the door to their room open and slam shut a few minutes later.

Maybe he should’ve just left, let Baz have the room to himself. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t leave things like this, like they always did: unfinished, their anger for each other building until it morphed into something ugly. 

So he waited some more. He waited until Baz came back once the sun had disappeared over the horizon and the room was bathed in darkness. He waited while Baz went into the bathroom again, waited as he came out and got into bed. He waited a few minutes more before getting up and gently lifting the covers of Baz’s bed, sliding under them.

Baz stirred as Simon settled, and then, without turning his head, said quietly,

“Why do you do this, Simon.”

His voice sounded small and hesitant and sad and it made Simon ache. For once, he could read between the lines. So he sighed and slid an arm over Baz’s waist, nosing into Baz’s neck.

“Because I want to,” he whispered.

xxx

Simon woke up to the comforting feeling of someone’s hand running through his hair. When he blinked open his eyes he saw Baz looking down at him, expression uncharacteristically soft.

“What time is it?” Simon mumbled around a yawn, reaching up to brush a strand of Baz’s hair out of his face.

“I don’t care,” Baz said after a moment, leaning down to press his lips against Simon’s. Simon responded instantly, arching up into him and bringing a hand up to cup the back of his neck and pull him closer, pull him down. There was something significant in the slide of their lips, today, apology mixed with reassurance mixed with desire. They kissed deeply and slowly and Simon felt like he was drowning in want. It was bliss.

Simon’s shirt and pants were removed with such ease he wondered if he was still dreaming, but then Baz had a hand in his boxers, wrapped around him, and it couldn’t be a dream. The pressure of Baz’s hand and the heat of his mouth against Simon’s were too precise, too real; every dip of his tongue into Simon’s mouth and crick of his wrist had Simon keening, both hands moving to press flat against Baz’s back and try to press him down. Baz resisted, hand still working and making Simon quickly unravel. Simon broke their kiss to press his forehead against Baz’s and breathe as he jerked up into Baz’s hand.

He locked eyes with Baz, suddenly, and they shared a thought, or something like it, in that moment. Simon saw Baz swallow, watched his throat move, leaned up to press a kiss against the dip of his collarbone. When he pulled back he smiled.

“Are you sure?” Baz asked, eyes roving Simon’s face, probably looking for signs of doubt or panic. He wouldn’t find any. Simon wanted this. He wanted Baz. 

Simon nodded. “Are you?”

He hoped, at this point, Baz wanted him too.

He waited as Baz went over the question in his head, several emotions passing through his eyes before he settled on something determined. He nodded. Simon swallowed, feeling happiness well up in him.

“Okay.”

It was both not as big of a deal as Simon had expected and somehow the biggest deal of his life. Baz was careful and sweet, sweeter than Simon ever thought he could be, and he seemed to sort of know what he was doing (which was good news for Simon, who felt sorely understudied). They went slow because they had to, but for once Simon didn’t mind, reveling in every lingering touch and hushed reassurance.

Seeing Baz completely naked for the first time was something he’d never forget, either. “Carved from marble” hadn’t been far off, and Simon spent a good several minutes just touching him, running his hands over the planes of Baz’s chest and his hips and his back, feeling the muscle shift under his fingers and listening to the occasional uptick of Baz’s breath.

When Baz finally entered him they lay unmoving for several moments, breathing together and being together. Baz had a hand caressing Simon’s face, brushing back his curls and smoothing out the lines of tension, murmuring comforting words under his breath. And even with the slight discomfort Simon thought he could stay like this forever, wrapped up in Baz and on the brink of some powerful revelation.

But in the end they had to move forward. Simon had only time to think about how glad he was to be moving forward with Baz before all coherent thought was lost to the sensation of Baz moving inside of him. 

Simon saw stars and worried for a blink that he’d transported them into space in the midst of his euphoria. But then he was back in the present, crying out Baz’s name and thinking about how wrong he was about all this. He could never imagine doing something like this out of hatred.

Hazily Simon registered Baz saying something, and when Simon turned his head he realized it was his name, Baz was saying his name over and over again like a prayer. Hearing it made a rush of heat flow through Simon; he wrapped a hand in Baz’s hair and tugged, pulling his face up so they could kiss messily.

He was nearing the edge when Baz shifted, and Simon felt a burst of pleasure shock through him that left him gasping and whimpering. Baz took in his reaction and did it again, angled himself so Simon could focus on nothing but the pleasure flooding his senses. He could feel his release building in him but there was something else, too, a rippling in the air as Simon felt himself coming undone, the magic coursing in his veins sparking and smoking.

When he came it was with a cry of Baz’s name and a blinding burst of light. His orgasm left him boneless and exhausted. He was only blearily aware of Baz pulling out of him and then disappearing off the bed before he fell asleep, the smell of roses filling his nose.

xxx

Simon woke with a start. The bed next to him was cold. Roses filled every corner of his vision.

He stumbled out of bed, pulling on a pair of sweatpants he hoped were his. The bathroom was empty. The room was empty, save for him and the roses.

He made his way to the door, swearing every time he stepped on a thorn. Maybe Baz just went out to feed – Simon didn’t know what time it was, if it was morning or night or another year altogether. There was no reason to panic.

Simon was nevertheless panicking as he swung open the door and froze, mouth falling open in shock.

“Agatha?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cross-posted on tumblr: carry-on--simon.tumblr.com/post/145770332280/to-get-to-you-part-34


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys! I can't believe this is [almost] over! 
> 
> also, thank you all, as always, for the comments and kudos - they mean so much to me, I truly never expected as much positive feedback as I've received. you guys are definitely one of the nicest reader bases I've ever had the pleasure of writing for <3
> 
> this is technically the "last" chapter, but there will be an epilogue to really wrap up the story. also! I'm sorry this chapter is so long - I switch between Baz and Simon's perspectives within the chapter and it turned out a lot longer than I'd anticipated, with no good spots to really split it in half evenly.
> 
> anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter, and look out for the epilogue next week!

Baz decided his younger self didn’t know the meaning of the phrase, “to be fucked”.

Because what he thought made him fucked before? That was _nothing_ compared to this.

Baz couldn’t even pull an “I don’t know how this started”, because he did – it was with the first time Snow kissed him (and the time after that, and the time after that, and the time after that); the first time he felt Snow’s hands on him (even though they were clenched in fists, even though Snow had been poised to hurt – Baz was a masochist, he already knew); the first time he saw Snow, pulled across the lawn by the Crucible, drawn to him like no one else was, like no one else _could_ be (the Chosen One, the infuriating boy with gold curls who was supposed to defeat him, who already did the first time their eyes locked).

And now Baz could never be with anyone else, could never get over Simon bloody Snow because the image of him in ecstasy, Baz inside of him, would be branded on his mind forever, and nothing would ever compare. 

Baz had left their room as soon as he’d woken up and remembered. The roses made it hard to think about anything else.

Because yes – Simon had apparently come so hard his magic bloomed roses all over their damn room. They curled up the bedposts and covered the walls and ceiling, piled on the floor so you couldn’t walk anywhere without getting stabbed. The mess filled their room with a sickly sweet scent that Baz was sure wasn’t a normal smell because it stuck with him and made him think of Simon’s hair and hands and skin. He smelled it even as he walked to the chapel, as he crept down to the catacombs. It was mid-morning, but Baz didn’t care – he needed to pull some Hamlet shit with a skull and re-evaluate all of his life choices a thousand times over before he could face Simon again.

And Merlin, when had he started thinking of Snow as ‘Simon’? He was Snow. Snow. Simon. Snow. Fuck.

Baz hadn’t ever _really_ thought they’d go as far as they did. He’d taken Sim— _Snow_ , he’d taken _Snow’s_ words seriously, though, had read up on what to do, had asked Fiona to send him condoms and lube and ignored her pointed silences. He just hadn’t believed they’d…

Baz sat in the first alcove he found, curling into himself, burying his head in his knees and trying to breathe. It hadn’t been bad, but maybe that had been the problem. If Snow had called a stop to the whole thing at some point, had told Baz he’d made a mistake and had stormed out to make up with Wellbelove, maybe that would have been enough for Baz to move on. But Snow hadn’t – instead he’d lay under Baz and come crying his name and kissed him, blissed out, murmuring that he didn’t hate Baz at all, and actually…

Actually quite fancied him.

Baz pounded a fist against the wall. He could still hear it, could still hear Snow giddily whispering, “I actually quite fancy you,” a loose smile on his lips, hand carding through Baz’s hair, eyes hazy in post-orgasm. He could still smell those damn roses.

Maybe if he fed. Baz couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten, and it was good to be safe.

He pushed himself off the dusty floor, hand on the wall as the world tilted around him. The smell of roses was overwhelming; screw feeding, Baz had to get out of this confined space and into fresh air. Clear his nose out.

Outside, the courtyard was blissfully empty, but the scent of roses was still making Baz dizzy. He stopped with a hand on a tree, leaning his weight into it.

They hadn’t even really _talked_ about it. They talked about other things, thanks to Snow’s insistence – Baz heard all about Snow’s experience in care, what it was like to jump foster homes all over London because no one wanted to keep a child that made things suspiciously explode for long, and lots of stories about Bunce over the years. Baz mostly talked about his family – what his Mom was like, what it was like when he went home – and a little about Dev and Niall. 

Baz hadn’t expected there to be this big discussion about _feelings_ before they’d done it – Snow hated him – that’s what all this was, even if had morphed into a way for them both to get pleasure. When they _had_ briefly discussed it, Snow had made clear he thought it was just like everything else they’d done and didn’t need further addressing. Baz hadn’t known how to say _that’s the problem_ ; it was everything they’d done, up to and including this, that mattered to Baz, that needed to be addressed. Baz was both desperate for and terrified of a conversation about what they’d been doing, longing for requited feelings and expecting his hopes to be crushed. Because no matter how many declarations Snow made ( _after_ he’d orgasmed, Baz reminded himself bitterly) Baz would never be able to believe them. Baz knew how tied Snow was to a life that only included Baz for his death at Snow’s hands. He couldn’t allow himself to imagine anything different.

He never thought any of it would reach this point, though it hadn’t been as unexpected as he tried to paint it as. Everything had been subtly building, the tenor of their interactions shifting as each day passed. And then the crest of the song: the end-of-the-year festival and the Humdrum attack, and then Simon storming over like someone had called the Mage a twat.

Right, because of Wellbelove.

Baz wouldn’t deny it if anyone asked if he was leading Wellbelove on. He was. But it was just flirting, and she was going to end up with Snow, anyway. Baz did it because it provided him with enough relief over the situation to not do something stupidly drastic. And because it pissed Snow off.

Wellbelove was starting to get on his nerves, though. It was one thing to play this game when she was with Snow, when Baz could look over and see the jealousy plain on his face and pretend it was for him. But Wellbelove had been trailing him after what Baz assumed was a falling-out with that eighth year. Or maybe she’d just gotten bored.  
Baz indulged her as much as his patience would allow because he knew she and Snow would get back together eventually, and it wouldn’t do to have her angry with him when that happened. It wasn’t on his mind that often, and Baz never told Snow (would he have even said? “By the way, your ex-girlfriend is interested in me, and I mean, I’m not surprised, but I just wanted to let you know. Also I’m flirting with her, but it’s not serious at all, I actually love you”?).

On the day of the festival she had run over to him, saying something about Snow and Bunce running off to the Wood after the Humdrum. He had shrugged, assuming they’d be fine like they always were, but she wouldn’t leave him alone, begging him to go help them. He’d refused, and she’d persisted, and eventually the Mage had started speaking and Baz had said something cheeky to distract her so she’d shut up.

And then Snow had appeared, fuming (literally), his uniform torn, his hair more of a mess than normal. Wellbelove had run to Snow’s side immediately, all fluttering eyelashes and a concerned pout of her lips that grabbed Snow’s attention, which had pissed Baz off enough to piss Snow off.

They had exchanged choice words – which were really more like heavily charged, innuendo-based flirting – and Snow had knocked Baz down like an angry kid on the playground before stalking off.

Baz had pushed himself off the grass before nodding toward Bunce and Wellbelove, who’d stood frozen in disbelief, and headed back toward Mummers House. He shouldn’t have – he should’ve gone and found Dev and Niall, or gone to the library, or gone down to the catacombs. But the way Snow had looked at Wellbelove when she had whined about how worried she’d been had made Baz’s head spin with jealousy.

So he’d gone to their room. And he and Snow had argued some more. And Baz had brought it up as his last resort – they never talked about _this_ , they never talked about how Snow still had his perfect, happy ending, which meant _this_ was something temporary, _this_ would end whenever Snow felt like dropping Baz, _this_ meant nothing.

It had been a surprise to see Snow still in the room when Baz was done sitting in their shower for 30 minutes, trying to breathe through his panic. It had been a bigger surprise when Snow had slipped under Baz’s covers when he knew Baz was still awake. Snow’s breath on his neck felt like an apology.

“Because I want to.”

Baz had wanted to believe him. Baz _did_ believe him, that was the scariest part. 

(No one would go to such lengths if they didn’t want to. But _want_ had so many different connotations, and Baz had felt with painful certainty that the way Simon wanted him wasn’t the way he wanted Simon, sappy post-orgasm confessions be damned).

And then it had been easy, again, to wake up and see Snow sleep-soft next to him, lit in the ambient morning light of their room.

Baz hadn’t intended for it to go further than it usually did. He kissed Snow because he’d _wanted to_ , because Snow looked up at him with warm eyes and Baz had wanted to pretend, for a moment, that any of this was genuine and not merely a trick of the morning light and sleep.

Except they’d paused, for a moment. There was a thrumming around them, musical energy, a crescendo into the heat of the song and in that moment they’d agreed. And it had been the most terrifying moment of Baz’s life, save for the nursery being attacked by vampires. Because he’d said – yes, I want this; yes, I’m sure – and he hadn’t lied, but he’d practically signed his death warrant. He’d agreed because he’d wanted to, because he thought he could handle it, because he thought maybe it wouldn’t mean more than anything else they’d done.

And in a sense, it hadn’t. But when Baz had been rocking into Snow, angling into his prostate and watching Snow cry out, it all hit him at once, the culmination of everything they’d done. Then he’d come with a cry, feeling Snow clench around him, feeling something inside him crack open.

When he’d woken up a while later, Snow was passed out, and there were a shit-ton of roses everywhere. Baz had cleaned himself and Snow up and then pulled on clothes and ran out of the room.

Now he was here – stumbling his way through the corridors of Watford, praying he wouldn’t run into anyone he knew (specifically Snow).

As luck would have it, the dining hall was basically empty; Baz got himself a coffee and retreated to an empty hall of classrooms. He couldn’t go back to their room, and though the smell of roses had dissipated Baz didn’t really want to go back into the catacombs. There was the library, or outside.

Or here. Here was good.

Baz slid down the wall, setting down the now-empty mug, and leaned his head back. Every time Baz closed his eyes he saw flashes of Snow, so he sat and stared at the pockmarked cement wall opposite him. 

It was a Saturday, which meant Baz had no classes to distract himself with, but it also meant he could avoid Snow for two whole days if he wanted to. And he did. Sort of.

(If anyone had asked, Baz secretly wanted Snow to appear around the corner, concerned, looking for him. He wanted Snow to have woken up and seen Baz had gone and realized something was wrong and come looking for him. He wanted Snow to crouch down next to him and say, “Are you okay” and talk Baz through this and reassure him that they were something to each other, that this meant as much to him as it did to Baz. That Baz wasn’t stupid for getting his hopes up even though he knew better. But Baz had always been a romantic).

Baz would have to interact with Snow again at some point – they lived together, for Crowley’s sake. He cringed at the likely interaction: Snow fumbling his way through a half-serious apology coupled with an explanation that boiled down to “I’m doing this because it feels good, not because I like you”, avoiding Baz’s eyes, Baz standing there and resisting the urge to strangle him because this _wasn’t fair_.

 _Life’s not fair, Basil_. Baz wasn’t sure if someone had ever said that to him, but it sounded like a platitude one relative or another would’ve spouted during the course of his life.

Fair would be Baz truly hating Snow, being only his enemy and roommate and nothing more. Fair would be never being cast together in the first place. Fair would be Baz’s mother still alive and serving as headmaster and Baz still human.

Eventually Baz pulled himself off the floor, returned his coffee mug to the empty dining hall, and went outside. He ran into Dev and Niall and chatted with them for a bit, mind still frustratingly on Snow even as he listened to them complain about classes and teachers; he’d dismissed himself with the excuse of homework when he’d started missing entire portions of the conversation because he couldn’t stop imagining how the confrontation with Snow would go. The walk to Mummers House and up to the room was entirely torturous. Baz stood outside the bedroom door for a good five minutes, clenching his fists and gritting his teeth and telling himself he was a _Pitch_ , Merlin, he was better than this.

When he’d finally forced his hand to move and open the door, he kept his eyes to the ground until he was inside the room. Then he looked up.

The room was empty.

It shouldn’t have been such a disappointment after Baz had spent a good portion of the day avoiding the very person who wasn’t in the room, but he’d built himself up. He’d been ready. Now he had to wait and be anxious for who knew how long. Bloody Snow.

Despite his apprehension, as Baz lay down to wait he felt his eyes getting heavy. He hadn’t slept for most of the night, and even vampires weren’t _that_ nocturnal. Snow would probably come back late, and if Baz was asleep they could put off this discussion for another day.

Baz was just drifting off, trying to push away his thoughts of Snow and their recent activities, when his eyes shot open and he sat straight up.

He looked all over the room from his bed. But he wasn’t crazy. The roses were gone.

It wasn’t the magic that startled Baz, it was the distinct lack of scorch marks and/or other damage to their room. Either Snow had a lucky break or someone else had magicked away the mess.

(Baz bet on the latter).

(Baz wished their disappearance didn’t make him upset).

(The roses were a stupid reminder of a stupid decision and Baz hated that he missed them because they were the only _real_ proof of what Snow had said, and he—)

The doorknob turned. Baz froze for an instant, then shoved himself down and under the covers.

He tried to breathe slowly as the door opened and someone (probably Snow, oh Merlin, _fuck_ ) entered the room, as footsteps moved closer to him and stopped abruptly. Baz could sense someone standing next to the bed.

“I know you’re awake, Baz.”

 _Shit_.

Baz opened his eyes and looked up. It was just Snow. There was no singing angel choir or fire-backed maniacal laughter. Just Snow and Baz’s heart lodged in his throat like usual.

Sitting up, Baz shifted enough so Snow could sit down if he wanted to. Snow plopped down next to him.

“So… we need to talk.”

Baz groaned. “Can you not _say it_ like that, Snow?”

“Fine,” Snow snapped. “Where were you this morning?”

“I… went out.”

Snow rolled his eyes. “Okay, but _where_. And why did you just leave?”

Of course the one thing Snow would fixate on would be what Baz most wanted to avoid.

“I needed to sort some things out.”

Snow hummed, again, like that was sensible, and fell silent.

“What happened to the roses?” Baz asked.

“Penny took care of them,” was all Simon said.

“You didn’t tell Bunce about…” Baz began, gesturing with his head between them. Snow shook his head.

“Did… did you expect me to?” he asked, and Baz shook his head.

Morgan’s tooth this was painful.

“I assumed she would’ve figured it out herself, actually,” Baz muttered, and Snow snorted.

“She probably has.”

“Hasn’t come up?”

Snow shook his head, _again_ , pained expression crossing his face. They sat in silence for another several long moments before Baz gritted his teeth in determination. He could do this. What _this_ was Baz didn’t know, but if he just opened his mouth he’d probably spill his feelings all over Snow. At least then they’d be out.

“I think—” he began, just as Snow said,

“I’m with Agatha, again.”

And Baz’s whole world shattered.

“Oh,” he said, his ears ringing, his heartbeat in his throat. It wasn’t what he’d expected – it wasn’t a direct rejection; it wasn’t even an apology. “Great.” 

“Baz—” Snow started, and Baz was pretty done with this conversation, now, and really needed to get out of this room.  
He stood up from the bed, eyes locked on the opposite wall. “I get it. You don’t want to do this anymore, right?”

“No, wait, I…” Snow said, and Baz wanted to say _really, say it, say we can continue because it means nothing to you, say it, I dare you_. 

He took a step away from the bed, back to Snow. “Thanks for the quick fuck, then,” he said, words harsh, biting, as mean as he could make them.

“Baz…”

Baz didn’t respond, even though the way Snow said his name made his chest clench. He hated how easily Snow could get to him, hurt him, and he focused on that – his hate for how Snow made him feel – and tried to place it on Snow. _I hate him. I_ hate _him_.

Snow was silent behind Baz for a good few minutes, but eventually Baz felt him stand up. Baz refused to move, waiting until Snow was across the room to sit back down on the bed. Baz heard the door open, heard Snow stop.

“I just…” Snow started, and Baz wanted to tell him to get the hell out, leave Baz to his brooding and go complain to his ex-ex-girlfriend. He didn’t. “I don’t… I didn’t… You’re always flirting with her. Even when she’s with me. I didn’t want—”

“I’m not interested in your girlfriend, Snow,” Baz snapped, refusing to turn around and see the kicked-puppy look on Snow’s face. It’d make him apologize, make him get up and take Snow’s face in his hands and kiss him and Baz couldn’t keep _doing_ this. “Merlin, if you weren’t so self-centered—”

“I know you say you only do it to bother me, okay? But… I… what if you didn’t? That’s all I could think, when she asked to get back together. I’m sorry.”

He sounded sorry. He sounded a lot of things. Baz wanted to scream.

“No, you’re not, Snow.”

Nothing happened for a few moments, and then Baz heard Snow leave the room. He expected the door to slam, but instead it clicked gently closed. Baz squeezed his eyes shut as tightly as possible and buried his head in his hands.

xxx

“Agatha?”

Simon was immediately, painfully aware that he was only in sweatpants. Agatha stood in the hallway, a fist still raised to knock, Penny behind her.

She took in Simon’s state of undress, lowering her arm slowly, and then her eyes flicked to the room behind him. Her eyebrows raised.

“Um…”

Simon flushed.

Penny looked up and caught sight of the roses, her own eyebrows raising.

“Simon, seriously? What did you do?”

“What do you guys need?” Simon asked, pushing past their questioning gazes and doing his best to block their view of the room. His mind was still reeling from waking up and finding Baz gone, what that meant and what this all meant and what they were supposed to do, now. This unexpected arrival was nearly too much.

Agatha wordlessly gaped at him, eyes flicking between Simon’s torso (and Merlin, were there marks? Baz’s hands felt burned into Simon’s skin, Simon could still feel the pleasurable sting where he’d bit down on Simon’s hipbone, surely they could see) and the room. Penny heaved a sigh at their frozen stances and pushed around them both.

“ **Into thin air!** ”

The mess of roses disappeared, leaving only a faint smell behind. Penny turned, hands on her hips, looking exasperated. 

“There. You’re welcome. Now can we come in?” 

Simon nodded, closing the door behind Agatha and then grabbing a shirt off the floor and pulling it on. Agatha sat down in Simon’s desk chair, and Penny flopped down on Simon’s bed. Simon sat next to her, waiting for someone to explain the impromptu visit to him, doing his best to ignore the flashes of Baz that popped unannounced into his mind’s eye. 

Apparently Penny was waiting, too, because she sighed and sat up after a few minutes, looking pointedly at Agatha. 

“ _Agatha_.”

Agatha stubbornly stared back at Penny. They seemed locked in some kind of silent conversation, and eventually Penny sighed in concession. Simon turned to look at her.

“Do you want to go to the end of the year ball with us?” she asked. Simon glanced to Agatha, who was angrily looking at her nails.

“As… as a group?” Simon asked. He’d, truthfully, completely forgotten all about the end of the year ball. He’d had other things on his mind, and with him and Agatha on a break he had no real reason to worry about when it was.  
In his periphery, Agatha threw up her hands. “This is why I didn’t want to do this!” she snapped, apparently taking Simon’s hesitancy as discomfort at the idea.

“I’m sorry this is _awkward_ for you, Agatha, but imagine how it feels for me!”

Agatha sighed dramatically, turning to look at Simon.

“While we’re at it, should we get back together, too? Just so it isn’t _awkward_ for Penny?”

Simon gaped. “I… I don’t—”

“It makes sense, though, right Simon? We make sense. But wait! That’s what _you_ —” Agatha said, eyes flicking to Penny. “Are always complaining about, right? ‘Agatha, do you even _like_ him? Or do you just think you _fit_ with him’?”

They had clearly already been arguing about this before they’d approached Simon. Simon sighed – he already had this thing with Baz on his mind that he needed to sort out; he didn’t really have enough energy to deal with this, too.

“Guys,” he said, interrupting their argument. “It’s fine. Agatha, if you want to go with someone else, it doesn’t bother me.”

Penny laughed humorlessly. “You wouldn’t say that if you knew who she wanted to go with.”

There was a sinking feeling in Simon’s stomach. When he looked over at Agatha, her gaze fell to her lap. She glanced up, like she felt his eyes on her, expression pained.

“Simon—”

Simon shook his head, his chest feeling hollow.

Penny was saying something to Agatha about how Baz was evil and classist and all Simon could think about was Baz leaning down to whisper something to Agatha, a smirk playing at his lips. And Agatha, tucking her hair behind her ear as she smiled up at him.

Would being with Baz make Agatha happy? Would it make _Baz_ happy?

Simon didn’t wonder if it’d make him happy – he couldn’t stand the thought of Baz and Agatha together, and could barely stand the thought of Baz with some nameless person. The former was something he’d dealt with for years, the latter was a new, uncomfortable, realization.

Baz hated Simon. Simon had never doubted that. Baz tried to kill him, tried to steal his voice, pushed him down stairs and beat him up and flung curses at him every chance he got. They’d fought for the past seven years. Simon had hated Baz for at least that long.

But then they’d kissed, and it had thrown Simon’s entire life off track. (Baz had been throwing Simon’s entire life off track ever since he’d stepped into it). And then they’d gone further, and Simon found himself realizing how much he wanted from Baz, with Baz.

Except Simon didn’t make Baz _happy_. And being together wouldn’t make either of them happy – Baz’s family would probably be furious, and Simon…

Simon was _The Chosen One_. How could he fill that role, be the Mage’s Heir and savoir of the World of Mages and have the future life that made all this worth it – kids and Agatha – if he had something with Baz? Baz was evil, a vampire, part of the Old Families and Simon’s enemy. Simon should hate him, should hate who he is and who he stands for. But Simon liked _this_ , he liked doing these things with Baz. He liked talking with Baz, teasing him, spending time with him. Knowing him as _Baz_ , not as any of the labels Simon had assigned him. 

Agatha and Penny had finally stopped arguing and were sitting in tense silence. Simon looked over at Agatha, thinking about her knowing Baz as Simon did. The thought made his stomach turn, and when their eyes met she dropped her gaze again.

Simon wanted Baz. He wanted something with Baz. But he had a life, one he’d promised to have with Agatha. She might not want that right now, but he still believed in his happy ending with her. He had to. If he didn’t, what else was there?

( _Baz_ , his mind screamed. Simon was tempted to throw everything away if it meant he could have something with Baz, but Baz had left this morning, had left Simon to an empty bed and his thoughts after Simon had confessed. And maybe he’d just needed time, but it was impossible not to read it as a rejection).

“What about us?” Simon said, the question directed at Agatha. This was his choice. This was the right choice. It had to be.

Agatha looked up. “We’re on a _break_ , Simon,” she said, her tone and her words and the feeling of wrongness twisting Simon’s stomach making his temper flare.

“So, what, you’re going to end up with Baz now? Is that it? Throw away everything we have for… for _him?_ ”

Simon didn’t know who he was really talking to, himself or Agatha, but it was easier to focus on the anger and hurt in Agatha’s eyes and let it drown out his thoughts.

“I can date someone without assuming we’re going to be together for our entire lives,” Agatha snapped. “Unlike _you_.”

“Merlin, Agatha, I’m sorry I like you so much I want us to have a life together—”

“You don’t! Simon, you don’t like _me_ , you like our imaginary life! And you’ve never _once_ asked me if I want the same thing you do. You never stopped to consider I might want something else.”

This wasn’t right. Agatha wasn’t supposed to rebuff him – she was supposed to take him back; they were supposed to make up like they always did so Simon wouldn’t have to think about any of this anymore. So he wouldn’t have to think about how Agatha’s words practically mirrored Baz’s from the other day. So he wouldn’t have to think about the part of him that thought, _if Agatha’s with me she won’t be with Baz_.

“More like some _one_ else,” Penny muttered.

Agatha whipped toward her. “Maybe I just want to be with someone who hasn’t planned my entire life out for me!”

“So you chose Baz,” Simon said. “Out of all the people in Watford, all the people in the world, you chose _Baz_.” There was venom in his voice, he could hear it, but he couldn’t tell what made him angrier – losing Agatha, or losing Baz.

Agatha looked guilty, at least.

“It’s not a _choice_ ,” she muttered, then said, louder, “And I told you, it’s not like I’m thinking about marrying him or anything. I’m just… interested in him.”

Simon wondered if Agatha realized how uncomfortable it was to have your ex-girlfriend tell you about the boy she liked, especially when he happened to also be the boy you liked.

“Then just go to the dance with him.”

Simon must have looked incredibly upset at his suggestion because Agatha shook her head emphatically, her eyes growing wide with concern. “No! No, Penny’s right – I’ll… I’ll have more fun if I go with you guys. The Baz thing isn’t… it’s not serious,” she said, as though pleading with Simon to understand. “I’m sorry I brought all this stuff up.”

Simon sighed. “It’s okay,” he said, as Penny nodded next to him. He mostly meant it.

Agatha and Penny got up to leave after a few more minutes of slightly strained conversation. On their way out Agatha stopped abruptly in the doorway.

“Actually, I’ll be right down, Penny,” she said, then turned to Simon and shut the door behind her after Penny nodded.

Simon waited. Agatha smoothed out her skirt before looking up at him, eyes sad.

“I really am sorry, Simon. You know I still love you and care about you. But I want a life that’s _mine_. I’d like to have you in it, but I want to be… I want to be _free_. Can’t you understand that?”

Simon wished he could. All he’d ever wanted was stability. A home he could call his own, a place he belonged, friends that made him feel normal.

“Yeah. I’m sorry too.”

Agatha smiled at his words and pushed up on her toes, pressing a kiss into Simon’s cheek.

It was always so easy, with Agatha. Simon could take comfort in the knowledge that they’d always make up, always be together in the end. He wished things with Baz could be that simple.

“I’ll see you later, Simon,” she said, then turned and left the room.

Simon waited a few minutes before leaving himself to wander the grounds and casually search for Baz. He knew they needed to talk, but all Simon really wanted to do was have things return to normal. Or whatever constituted ‘normal’ in his life, now. It was amazing to him that normal had taken on such a different meaning - he and Baz had gone from fighting and arguing to kissing and talking and the atmosphere between them had hardly changed; Baz was still just Baz, and Simon felt like he always had.

(That fact – that even when everything changed nothing really did – would’ve been more concerning if it didn’t feel so unavoidable, if this thing with Baz, if everything with Baz, didn’t feel somehow natural and right).

When he got back to their room, Simon was a bit shocked to see Baz there. Their fight was unsurprising – Baz was as infuriatingly tight-lipped and awkward as he always was, and Simon grew more panicked as the pauses between their questions grew. 

Simon had been about to say _something_ , something real, maybe, but he’d seen Baz’s mouth open and thought about Agatha and had blurted out the lie. He didn’t want to hear the rejection, or the awkward dismissal of what Simon had said. He didn’t know how to say, "I _want something with you_ but it feels like I can't and like what I _can_ have will never be enough, now, and I don’t know what to do,” so instead he said “I’m with Agatha again,” because he would be, eventually, probably.

Baz’s reaction made Simon want to take it back. He’d never felt anger from someone before, but in that moment that was all Simon could focus on – the rage and hurt curling around Baz. Simon hadn’t wanted any of this. He’d wanted answers, reassurance, would’ve even taken a, “What do we do now?” But Simon had panicked and said the worst thing possible, instead. _Agatha doesn’t even want me, she wants_ you, _just like I do_ , he should’ve said. Anything better than the lie that had made Baz turn his back on him, that had Simon stumbling through a half-true excuse before leaving the room like a coward.

Simon got back to the room late that night after pacing the grounds and running through the same looks and conversations and thoughts a thousand times, coming no closer to a solution. Baz was asleep in the dark room, and for once Simon was as quiet as possible as he got ready for bed. In the morning Baz was gone before Simon woke up, and Simon had the room to himself all day. They played alternates like that for the entire last week of the year, Simon seeing little more than the occasional flashes of dark hair and intense eyes in the hallway when they passed and left unable to apologize, tell him he lied, say anything. 

By the day of the ball Simon was in a horrible mood. He had the room to himself, unsurprisingly, as he got ready, and found his thoughts drifting to Baz, like they had for the entire week, Baz’s absence a physical thing like it always was, for Simon. He wondered if Baz was even going to the dance. He hated that he wondered. He hated that he hoped Baz would be there. He hated that a vision of walking into the dance with Baz, hand-in-hand with him, flitted unbidden through his mind. He’d ignore everyone’s open-mouthed stares in favor of smirking at Baz, glancing at him out of the corner of his eye and feeling, suddenly, like he could take on the world. Like _they_ could. 

Simon shook his head to clear his thoughts, angrily pulling on a suit jacket before heading downstairs to meet Penny and Agatha.

The dance was in the dining hall, which had been converted into a pseudo-ballroom sometime over the past few hours. The long tables had been pushed to the sides of the room, and floating lights were scattered around to create a more formal ambience. Simon was in no mood to appreciate the effort.

He met Penny and Agatha in the hallway outside – they both looked wonderful, Penny in a dark blue sparkly dress that fell to her ankles and hugged her curves, Agatha in a short, pastel pink frilly dress. Together they walked through the large doors, caught in a stream of formally-dressed students, and Simon pretended there wasn’t a gaping hole inside of him, swirling with hurt and confusion left over from the week.

Simon danced with Agatha and Penny a bit but spent most of the time standing around, chatting with them and other students and warily watching the door. Baz probably wouldn’t come – what reason would he have to be there? – but that didn’t stop Simon from worrying. Worrying and secretly hoping Baz would show up so Simon could fix everything.

About a quarter of the way through the dance, word started up that someone spiked the punch. Simon normally wasn’t a huge alcohol fan, but tonight he took a cup or two, drinking steadily until he had a buzz that smoothed his worries enough for him to relax, loose-limbed and warm. Penny rolled her eyes at him good-naturedly when he tripped over toward where she was standing with Agatha, but it all slid easily off his back. So what if he couldn’t be with the person he wanted most? He still had Penny, wonderful, wonderful Penny, smart Penny, and Agatha, _Agatha_ , and the life they could have. _Would_ have.

Caught up in his fuzzy burst of delirious happiness, Simon abruptly took Agatha’s hand and dragged her out onto the dance floor. She was laughing at Simon’s insistency, eyes sparkling, and Simon believed, for a second, that they could make this work. They always had.

Then there was a blur, and Simon was thrown off-balance, tripping back because someone was stepping between them and sweeping Agatha away. When Simon was sure he wasn’t going to throw up, he looked up from the spinning floor to see who had rudely interrupted their _moment_. 

And immediately regretted it.

xxx

Baz hated these dances. They were pointless and stiff and now, of all times, Baz just wanted to sit in his room and avoid people.

So why was he here?

He’d told Dev and Niall he wasn’t going to go. He’d angrily shoved the suit Fiona had sent him during the week deep into his closet. ( _Figured you’d need this_ , the note had said. Baz regretted ever asking for her help). He had a whole night planned out of reading and brooding and not thinking about Snow.

But he was here, outside the dining hall converted into some semblance of a ballroom, in the very suit Fiona had sent him. And he was nervous.

It didn’t show, obviously, but he still felt it.

From inside the hall he heard laughter he swore was Snow’s. This was a bad idea.

He turned to leave, berating himself for giving into stupid impulses, when he caught site of them: Snow, pulling Wellbelove across the floor, together looking perfect and happy and _right_ and Baz saw red. Suddenly he was moving across the floor, slipping easily between dancers and, almost out of habit, scooping Agatha out of Snow’s arms like she was a ragdoll. When she’d recovered from her shock she smiled deviously up at him like they were sharing a private joke – Baz ignored her in favor of glancing down at Snow.

 _Down_ , because Snow was hunched over, looking like he was going to be sick. Baz would laugh if he weren’t so angry.

Eventually Snow glanced up. When his eyes focused and met Baz’s they went wide in shock.

Baz turned away before either of them could speak, dragging Wellbelove across the floor and further into the crowd, immediately regretting his impulsivity. He’d specifically wanted to avoid Snow, and then he’d gone and done the one thing that ensured Snow’s attention. He really was a bloody masochist. 

“Good evening to you too, Baz,” Wellbelove chirped, and Baz shot half a smile at her, regretting ever even coming downstairs. Now he was stuck with Wellbelove and Snow was probably angry and going to try and corner him. And from the way Snow had been looking at Baz this week – with half-pleading, half-murderous staring – he probably wanted to try and “talk” some more. That in and of itself was infuriating; Simon had made his choice, patched up his relationship with Wellbelove and left Baz to wonder if it really was better to have a taste of something if you were only going to lose it. But Baz couldn’t understand why Snow kept _trying_. Trying to talk about _this_ when there wasn’t anything to say, not when Snow was with Wellbelove. Baz had to get out of here.

“You look very handsome,” Wellbelove said, cutting through Baz’s concentration. Baz hummed distractedly, glancing through the heads of dancers to try and find an exit route. “I didn’t think you were going to come tonight.”

There. A side door was left open. Baz felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, and he spun them around and locked eyes with Snow across the room. Snow squinted, downing the punch in his hand and reaching for another cup, then downing that one too and heading over toward them.

“Well, as lovely as it’s been, Wellbelove—” Baz said, panic mounting as Snow wove through the crowd.

“Don’t tell me you’re leaving already!” Wellbelove said, teasing lilt to her voice Baz did not have time for. “I’m actually enjoying this – you’re a much better dancer than Simon.”

Baz nodded, already pulling away from her as Snow got closer and closer. Agatha said something that was lost to the din of the crowd, but Baz was already turned, heading toward the door and slipping through it, breathing a sigh of relief when he saw the dark corridor he’d entered was empty.

His relief didn’t last for long. He heard the door he’d just pushed through creak open, and he leapt into the first alcove he found, breath heavy and too-loud in the quiet.

Disjointed steps moved through the corridor, like someone was tripping over their own feet and trying to be discreet about it. 

Fucking Snow.

xxx

Baz was up to something. Baz was always up to something, Simon’s drunk brain supplied, and Simon agreed – that was why he had to stay with Baz forever, to keep him from doing something stupid.

Right now, though, right now Simon wanted nothing more than Baz out of his sight. Not in the midst of the ball, dancing with Agatha and looking calm and perfect and _attractive_ and Merlin, Simon needed more punch.

Agatha was looking up at Baz like he was the only person in the room, and Baz smiled at her occasionally. Every time he did Simon felt jealousy, hot and heavy, buzz through him. Or maybe that was the alcohol.

If Simon weren’t incapacitated he’d have decked Baz when he’d first swooped in, but Simon had been preoccupied with trying to not fall over. Now, though, bolstered by two more drinks and the sight of Baz dancing with Agatha, Simon had no problem pushing through the crowd, staring hard at Baz and enjoying the panic that bloomed on his face.

Simon was surprised he could even recognize emotions, at this point, with how the room and the people in it were spinning. His eyes stayed locked on Baz like a target, which helped him stay upright, at least, as he pushed past Agatha and followed Baz through a side door. Baz probably had one scheme or another and that’s why he was at the dance, that’s why he’d looked worried when Simon had started toward him. He’d stopped to ruin Simon’s night and now he was back on track, creeping through abandoned corridors that echoed with the muffled noise of the dance, probably looking for ways to overthrow the Mage. But that didn’t matter. As long as he was here, Simon could tell him he’d lied, could fix everything. 

He just had to find Baz first.

It was getting more and more difficult to stay on his feet, but somehow Simon managed, moving as quietly through the corridor as he could. He almost called out Baz’s name before realizing, slowly, how stupid an idea that’d be. 

Simon had sort of expected to confront Baz immediately in the empty hallway, but he was alone, and the realization settled on his shoulders, cutting through his alcohol-induced determination and making him gloomy. He was about to give up and head back to the dance, or maybe his room, since Baz obviously wasn’t there, when he felt a hand reach out and grab the front of his shirt, pulling him into an alcove. Simon almost screamed until he realized it was just Baz, glaring at Simon and angrily holding him against the wall.

“What in Crowley’s _fuck_ are you doing, Snow?”

Blearily, Simon realized the furor in Baz’s voice and the fire in his eyes would normally make him either angry or turned on or both. Today, though, it only made him giggle, pleased beyond words that Baz was holding him up against a wall and looking at him and snapping at him. They hadn’t talked in a week. A bloody _week_. Simon had missed him.

In front of him, Baz flushed, and Simon realized he’d been talking out loud, thoughts flowing easily through his loose lips.

“Are you… Snow, are you _drunk_? Merlin, I hate you so much.”

Simon laughed at that, because Baz looked angry but he was still blushing, blushing in an angry way and Baz couldn’t _hate_ him, because Simon didn’t hate Baz, and that wasn’t how these things worked.

“ _These things_?”

If Simon liked Baz, which he did, and they did _stuff_ , which they did, Baz liked Simon, too, right? _These things_. These… relationship-things.

“We’re not in a _relationship_ ,” Baz spat, face darkening and that wasn’t good, no, Simon hated when Baz looked like that, like he wanted to stalk off and hide and make Simon wonder why he cared so much about Baz’s anger. Maybe… maybe because he cared about _Baz_. Somehow that made sense. Of course he cared about Baz.

The realization had Simon giggling, again, tipping forward to lean his head on Baz’s shoulder and start to wind his arms around Baz’s waist. Baz jerked back, though, knocked into the wall behind him with an unpleasant expression on his face.

“Stop. Snow, _stop_. You’re drunk.”

Hands were holding Simon back, but he didn’t want to stop, he _never_ wanted to stop. Couldn’t Baz understand that? And, ha, that was almost what Agatha had said to _him_. “I want to be free, Simon, can’t you understand that?” No, Simon couldn’t, Simon didn’t understand a lot, about Agatha, about Baz, about _himself_ , but he understood that he wanted Baz, and it was stupid and horrible and… and unfair, completely unfair that he couldn’t have something with him.

Baz was looking at Simon, tight-lipped, holding himself back, and Simon wasn’t sure what he’d said out loud and what he’d thought in his head, but he didn’t care because it was all _true_. He wanted Baz. He _wanted Baz_. He… he lo—

A hand clamped down over Simon’s mouth.

“Stop.”

Baz was breathing heavily in Simon’s blurry vision, expression wild. Simon furrowed his brows – he needed to say this! It was important! 

He licked at Baz’s hand, laughing when Baz pulled it back with a sneer, then followed the motion, trapping Baz’s arm against the wall.

Simon leaned forward, pushed Baz back against the dark stone wall and decided if Baz didn’t want Simon to _say it_ , then Simon would show it, like he’d been doing for the past months, for the past almost-year, but this time he’d know and Baz would know.

Baz had another hand up on Simon’s chest, holding him back, keeping them apart. He looked torn between panic and upset, and Simon hated that, hated seeing Baz like that, but for once he didn’t hate the worry and compassion he felt that made him want to do something to change Baz’s expression.

He took Baz’s other hand, pulling it easily off his chest and trapping it against the wall with the other. Baz just watched him, eyes wide, breaths short and nostrils flaring.

It was exactly like falling when Simon kissed Baz, probably because he’d sort of tripped over his own feet in the small space and actually fallen into Baz, but mostly because of the feeling. Because he’d _missed this_.

They were just getting somewhere – Simon abandoning Baz’s hands to grasp at his face and his suit, feeling Baz’s hands wind into Simon’s hair, another on his waist, both of them panting and hot, pressed together and lost in the sensation of each other – when Simon heard it.

“Simon!”

And ignored it. Because he was kissing Baz right now, and they hadn’t done anything for a week, and Simon wasn’t leaving this for the world.

The voice called his name again, and Simon recognized it this time. It seemed Baz did, too, because in the space of a second he’d shoved Simon back, realization dawning on his face along with hurt. He didn’t even say anything – he just scoffed and ducked out of the alcove, disappearing down the hallway before Simon had a chance to recover.

Simon started after him anyway, determined to chase him down, but a hand held him back, gripping into his sleeve. He looked down to see pink manicured nails, followed the feminine hand to the arm up to the pale-blonde hair and then he was looking into Agatha’s concerned face.

“Simon—“

“What… what is…?” Simon said, unable to even form a coherent sentence at this point. Agatha shook her head, then pulled out her wand from the clutch in her other hand and said,

“ **Clear your head!** ”

There was an uncomfortable feeling like a pressure change, except when Simon blinked his eyes open he could think, again, and everything wasn’t soft and funny and warm.

“How did you—?”

“It doesn’t matter. There’s another dark creature attack, Simon. Penny wanted to go immediately but I convinced her to wait until I found you,” Agatha said, panic making her voice shake and sending a spike of worry through Simon.

Even though Simon’s head was clear, somehow, it was still a whirlwind of confusion. Simon had just made a fool of himself, Baz was gone, and now Agatha was reminding Simon of the unending dangers of his life.

“Wait, Agatha, go where?”

“Out. Simon, out to fight, to try and find the Humdrum again, probably, I don’t know! But you have to come, everyone’s in a panic, and—”

“Okay,” Simon said, already moving past Agatha to slip back into the ballroom. It was eerily empty, but Simon could hear sounds from outside, shouts and screeches. He headed toward the noise, bursting through the main doors to see complete chaos. Watford students and staff and dark creatures were locked in combat, and it was just like that day at the fair except it was heavy with the significance of the night.

“Where’s Penny!” Simon shouted to Agatha over the noise, and she scanned the crowd before pointing to where Penny was knelt behind some rubble. While he watched she shouted a curse at a goblin, then got up and started running through the crowd toward the Lawn and the Wood beyond.

Simon didn’t think, didn’t even wonder what Penny was doing. He just called the Sword of Mages and ran after her, vision tunneling to her back as she fought her way through the crowd. Behind him, Agatha called his name, but the sound was swallowed up by the crowd, and by then Simon was too busy staying alive to wonder if she’d be okay.

xxx

Baz had just made his way to the exit when a dark creature burst through the door. He didn’t even register what it was, just cast it down and sprinted in the other direction, hoping the other students wouldn’t be too caught off guard.

He stopped to breathe in the first doorway he found, fighting down thoughts of Snow unsuccessfully.

Snow. Bloody Snow. Jumping him when he was drunk and spewing as much soft, pointless, emotional bullshit as he could while he had Baz in his clutches.

Probably didn’t even realize how much he’d said. Slurring through confession after confession, _I like you so much, and it’s not fair because I can’t have you, I can’t, not when there’s Agatha and my life with her and Penny and the Mage, I can’t not be with you but I can’t be with you, I don’t hate you, you know that, I probably never have, I don’t know, does it matter? I’m sorry if it matters, I… bloody hell, Baz, I want to kiss you all the time. Do you know what that feels like? I hope you do. I want you to want me, too. Is that wrong? Is that… is that so wrong, to want us to be something more than enemies and… and roommates? Merlin, Baz, I want too much_.

He’d almost said… he’d almost _said_ too much. And Baz couldn’t take it, had stopped him because it would’ve been a false confession because even, Crowley, even if it were true, Snow wouldn’t have wanted Baz to hear it.

Baz had missed him this week, too, and their lips met blissfully easily. Baz hated it. Baz didn’t hate Simon. As much as he wanted to, he didn’t hate Simon. He hadn’t felt anger when Simon said he cared about Baz. He’d only felt melancholic sadness, the result of reality being shoved in his face.

It didn’t really matter if Simon cared about him, didn’t hate him, liked him, maybe… maybe even _loved_ him, and that Baz felt the same, because Simon was right. It wasn’t fair, but they couldn’t be together. It was inconceivable for a number of reasons, the main one being that where Baz would drop everything at even a _chance_ , Simon wouldn’t. Baz knew that, had always known that, but Simon practically saying it to him didn’t make it any easier to take.

Simon – Snow – was too tied up in his fate, in fate in general. He didn’t stray from the path. It had always baffled Baz that Snow and Wellbelove were even together when she so clearly wanted spontaneity but Snow had his, their, entire life already planned out, with everyone’s roles clearly defined. Including Baz’s.

There was a screeching cry from outside that broke through Baz’s torrent of thoughts, and he realized he was hiding when he should be out fighting, or at least doing _something_. He ran through empty hallways until he reached the outside, where teachers and students were battling a fairly large group of dark creatures. It was too dark to tell if there were more than there had been during the festival, but it didn’t matter. It only mattered that they were all killed or run off.

Baz considered trying to find Dev and Niall in the chaos, just to have two people to fight next to, but then he caught a flash of light-blonde hair. Wellbelove was pushing through the crowd back toward him, and he wondered if she was running away or if she’d seen him and was coming to recruit him to go help Bunce and Snow like that day at the festival.

It seemed to be some combination of both – she ducked under a stream of fire and came to a stop in front of Baz, eyes glossy with panic and only half-focused on his face.

“Penny and… and Simon… I lost them in the crowd, I think… I think they went off to fight the Humdrum, can you—?”

“C’mon,” Baz said, tugging Wellbelove by the arm and cursing a path through the fighting for them. “Where’d they go, the Wood?”

Wellbelove nodded next to him, and together they ran through the courtyard, across the Lawn, dodging dark creatures and errant spells. Baz quickly realized there were many, _many_ more dark creatures than there had been during the festival, as the fighting spread all the way from the center of Watford to the edge of the Lawn. How the dark creatures had gotten past the inner gates, Baz wasn’t sure, but if the Humdrum was involved it wasn’t that surprising.

By the time they reached the Wood, Baz was out of breath from sprinting and shouting spells, and Wellbelove didn’t look much better. They stopped in an empty clearing to breathe, Baz with one ear cocked for enemies. The Wood was huge – if Bunce and Simon, fuck, _Snow_ , were in here somewhere, there’d be no way to find them unless they used a spell. And a powerful one. Baz didn’t know why, but there was an urgency in him to reach them before they found the Humdrum. Call it vampire’s intuition, but Baz didn’t want them confronting that thing alone tonight.

He turned to tell Wellbelove as much, maybe come up with a game plan. She was already staring at him when he looked at her, though, and when he met her eyes she abruptly grasped his hands, holding them between them.

“Baz—”

“Wellbelove, why are you doing this now?” Baz asked, unable to keep the judgement out of his voice. Her penchant for dramatizing even the most banal situations was humorous at the best of times, annoying at the worst. Now it was, frankly, completely unacceptable, and Baz already felt on the edge of panic.

“Because we could _die_ , Baz, at any moment! And… and I want to know, I just need to know—”

“What about Snow?” 

Agatha paused, seemingly caught off guard. “What about him? We’re not together.” 

The words didn’t register for Baz because they didn’t make sense. “You were at the dance with him,” he heard himself say.

“As friends,” Agatha said breathlessly, shifting closer to Baz. “It’s you I want. And you’ve been flirting with me for years now. Can’t I have a straight answer?”

Baz pushed through the rushing questions and confusion in his head (and the inappropriate, sarcastic voice that said, “You can’t have a straight _anything_ from me”) because he knew what it was like to never be certain how someone felt about you, and he was tired of it.

“Agatha, listen to me,” Baz said, voice serious, leaning closer to her to make sure she took him seriously. No more edging around the issue. “I—”

“Baz?”

Baz had never felt his heart stop before. And he remembered being turned into a vampire. He looked up from Agatha’s wide-eyed, painfully hopeful expression to see Simon standing at the edge of the clearing, Bunce behind him. His expression was a mix of confusion and hurt and Baz opened his mouth to reply, to say, _this isn’t right, I promise you, none of this is what it looks like_ , but he never got the chance.

A terribly familiar dry, sucking feeling crackled through the air, and then Baz saw it, saw him. Holding a little red ball, cruel twist of an expression on his face, eyes locked on Simon. Baz’s breath was caught in his throat, and even if he hadn’t been frozen in shock he wouldn’t have been able to move fast enough. The Humdrum glanced over at Baz at the last second, bared its teeth at him, and then there was a wooshing sound and a burst of magic powerful enough to knock Baz out.

When he came to Simon and Bunce and the Humdrum were gone, and Agatha was sitting with her head in her hands. Her pink dress was torn and muddied, the edges charred. Her hair was tangled, gripped in her fingers and draped over her shoulders. She was shaking. 

Baz felt like he was, too. He couldn’t tell. He just kept seeing Simon’s face where a monster’s should’ve been.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cross-posted on tumblr: carry-on--simon.tumblr.com/post/146069749680/to-get-to-you-part-44


	5. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I found this on her computer... it was her 3rd draft of the Epilogue -- she wanted it to be very good for you all to read. Your comments encouraged her to continue. Please let me know what you think of her writing. From, her Mom.

The first time Simon remembered consciously having hope was the day he arrived at Watford.

When the Mage had initially come to his care home to bring him there, Simon still hadn’t been able to believe any of it. A world of magic, explanations for his accidents and the feeling of always being out of place that trailed around him wherever he went; it was too good to be true.

But then Simon walked through the gates of Watford’s campus. His first breath of the magic-drenched air prickled like soda down his throat. He felt alight with energy and power and _freedom_. Anything felt possible and everything seemed within reach.

Of course, it was a short time before Simon realized his reality had slightly more edges than he’d anticipated, but he’d looked past them and held on to that initial hope with the ferocity of a child who’d spent too long waiting for the world to fall out from under his feet.

Simon felt like the world had finally pulled out from under him.

He spent the summer alone, lonely, trapped in his thoughts and wondering if he’d been fooling himself the whole time. If he was even the type of Chosen One who got a happy ending. If he was even the Chosen One at all. If it even mattered.

As the heat of summer weighed down on the world, Simon didn’t think about Watford. He moved into a new care home and spent as much time as he could away from it, trying to outrun his personal ghosts. Ignoring his twin bed that felt too big and the pangs of loneliness like tangible holes in his chest. Letting the feeling of betrayal grow into anger as the summer days blurred into one sweat-drenched, sun-burned mirage and he didn’t hear from anyone.

(It was second-nature for Simon, by now, to let upset and hurt and worry morph into anger. Anger was familiar, manageable. Anger could be handled with fists smashed into walls and insults spat at offenders that more often than not turned verbal fights into physical ones. Simon was always skilled at provocation, but his anger made him vicious).

(His summer was spent chasing bloodied knuckles and bruised ribs, nursing the stinging of a split lip to distract him from everything his anger really hid).

It was surprising, then, when Simon woke up one day and realized it was time for him to leave for Watford. The summer had slipped by like the sweat down his temples in the heat of late August as he waited for the bus.

If the normal world was an unbearably hot fever-dream with Simon’s only reprieves being the injuries that grounded him, Watford was akin to being doused in cool, soothing water. Coming back to Watford was always like this: a breath of fresh air if Simon wanted to be cliché, heaven if he wanted to be overdramatic, home if he was being honest.

The buildings and campus of Watford itself weren’t home, per say, but Watford carried within its walls memories of adventures and fights and trials, Simon making friends and finding purpose and slowly growing up. Watford was the first home Simon had ever known, and the first place he had ever dared to believe in a future for himself.

Simon arrived at Watford in the afternoon, the early fall light bathing the campus in picturesque sepia-gold hues. Walking through the campus was like looking into faded photographs; Simon felt like his time here was already over and he was merely relieving the memories of his last year with melancholic fondness.

Shaking off the unnerving thoughts, Simon made his way to Mummers house, his heart feeling heavier with each step he took up the winding staircase. He paused outside the door to his room, his hand refusing to raise and push open the door.

After escaping the Humdrum and flying back to Watford with Penny, Simon had been sent off so quickly by the Mage he hadn’t had a chance to even look for Baz. Simon’s goodbye to Penny had been rushed, too (and Simon understood it, he did – her parents had been there, and it had been a terrifying situation, and of course your first instinct after escaping a terrifying situation would be to run to your parents and let them sweep you up in a hug and take you away to safety and comfort. But Simon had been terrified, too, and the only comfort he’d received had been the Mage brusquely asking if he was unharmed before shuffling him away to a care home). But it had still been a goodbye.

With Baz there was nothing. Simon’s last memory of him was right after he’d caught him and Agatha in the Wood – Baz, screaming Simon’s name, one hand reached out, one still held by Agatha. The hurt over seeing them together, over them _together_ , still stung as sharply as it had that day.

Simon didn’t know what he’d expected. Baz had always been after Agatha, for as long as Simon had shown an interest in her. It was why Simon lied – because he’d been afraid, and angry, because Agatha wanted Baz and Simon was pretty sure Baz wanted her too and Simon had just stupidly confessed in a moment of ecstasy and then Baz had _left_ and it was too much. So he’d lied.

(And when he’d confessed, _again_ , drunk and jealous and angry at the ball, Baz had left once more. He’d left to sneak off with Agatha and confess to her in the Wood, and then probably turn her so they’d be together for eternity. It made Simon’s vision go red, just thinking about it).

By the time Simon came back to himself, still in the hallway outside his room, anger pounded at his temples. With a growl he shoved the door open, ready to scream at Baz until his voice was hoarse.

But the room was empty.

Simon stood, panting, in the doorway, eyes scanning the undisturbed room as his brain tried to make sense of the emptiness. When it did he heaved a sigh and threw his bag down on his bed, sitting heavily next to it.

Of course Baz would arrive late this year. He’d draw this whole out for as long as possible to torture Simon with it, then show up unannounced and laugh in Simon’s face.

(A Baz that was evil was like anger, for Simon – familiar, manageable. The Baz that teased him and laughed against his lips and traced patterns on the inside of his thighs was more dangerous – Simon loved that Baz. But a Baz that tried to kill him, one that was working in secret with the Old Families to depose the Mage, one that had stolen his girlfriend and shown up late to delay confrontation and needle further under Simon’s skin – Simon could hate him, had for years).

As the days progressed and Baz still didn’t turn up, Simon’s nerves wore thin. He tensed every time Penny visited his room unannounced until days snowballed into weeks and he got used to hearing footfalls on the staircase or the rattle of the doorknob. But his jumpiness, instead of fading away, worsened, making him restless and suspicious. Every shadow out of the corner of his eye made him flinch. He scoured the grounds even though he knew Baz would’ve shown up if he were at Watford.

When the Mage payed Simon a visit, Simon expected him to talk about the Humdrum and what had happened last spring. Instead he focused on the Old Families, told Simon that they were pulling their children out of Watford early and refusing to pay tithes. It made Simon think of Baz’s disappearance, perfectly timed – just like it was last year – to coincide Old Family activities.

Baz was probably holed up in some dark room in a stuffy mansion, sat around an old wooden table with other magicians loyal to the Old Families, plotting how to overthrow the Mage. That thought didn’t stop Simon from combing the grounds – what if Baz showed up to sneak into the Mage’s office or make deals with the creatures in the Wood to gain their support? If anything Simon found himself more restless than before.

(He even went into the catacombs once, on the off chance that Baz was down there, but the smell – dust and bones and layers upon layers of history tinged with what Simon could swear was Baz’s shampoo – was painfully familiar, and he left before he even made it down the first corridor).

It was his restlessness that led him to find Agatha, up on the ramparts. They hadn’t really talked since he’d been back – she and Penny visited his room to talk about the Humdrum and the Old Families – but they hadn’t talked about _them_ , or about last year.

Simon hadn’t expected to see Agatha up on the ramparts looking like a ghost in the low light of early evening. But his anger, his restlessness, had drained, for a moment, like it sometimes did with Agatha – because it was _Agatha_ , because for so long they just _were_ and it was easy with her if Simon just swallowed everything up and believed that they still could be – until she’d turned around, eyes wide in panic, Baz’s bloody handkerchief clutched in her hand.

“Are you meeting him up here? Are you— Is he coming?” Simon yelled, grabbing the handkerchief out of Agatha’s raised hand because he didn’t want Agatha to have it and he didn’t want her to want Baz and he especially didn’t want Baz to want her.

“I… I don’t—” Agatha began.

“What about us?!” Simon shouted, and at the words Agatha’s face shuttered closed.

“What _about_ us, Simon?”

It didn’t seem possible, after last year, after the last _seven_ years, for Baz to so easily slip away to begin working for the Old Families, returning to Watford only to meet with Agatha and maintain their secret tryst. Abandoning Simon, even as his enemy. But here he was. Here they were – Simon arguing with Agatha, grasping to maintain a relationship he didn’t have much interest in as a last-ditch effort at relief, at happiness – wishing Baz _would_ just show up so Simon could punch him or kiss him or do _something_.

“We’re… Agatha, we’re endgame,” Simon said, pleaded, feeling everything slip further out of his grasp at the expression on Agatha’s face. “I love you. Doesn’t that mean something to you?”

An almost imperceptible wince crossed Agatha’s face at his words, and she shook her head.

“Of course it does, Simon. But I… I don’t just want to be somebody’s prize at the end of everything.”

“You know that’s not—”

“I want to be somebody’s _now_.”

Simon’s mouth snapped shut, and he felt his hand clench even harder around the handkerchief, his nails digging into his palm through the silky fabric.

“And you thought you were Baz’s?” Simon asked, unable to keep the venom out of his voice, jealous despite himself.

Agatha sighed, some of the hurt leaving her face to make room for annoyance.

“Why does everything have to be about Baz with you?” she snapped.

_Because I think I’m in love with him_ , Simon thought.

“I love you, Agatha,” Simon tried once more, because Baz’s “disappearance”, Agatha with Baz’s handkerchief – this was confirmation of what Simon had begun to fear.

Baz was gone. He’d made his choice. And he hadn’t chosen Simon.

“But you’re not _in love_ with me,” Agatha said quietly, and if Simon didn’t know better he’d think she knew everything.

They stood in silence for a long moment, the only noise the wind rushing around them. It blew Agatha’s hair across her downturned face, and despite everything Simon still found her beautiful in a coveted, almost untouchable way.

“I’m sorry,” he said eventually, because he was, and because he’d always been the one to break their silences. Agatha glanced up from under her hair, her eyes soft with memory, her lips turned down ever slightly.

“Me too,” she whispered, the wind dissipating the words as soon as they were spoken.

Simon left the ramparts alone and returned to an empty room. It echoed his sadness around him, memories ricocheting off of benign objects that reminded him of Baz and everything they’d done, everything they were.

Simon was still so full up of anger he could feel it coiled in his limbs and rushing in his ears.

(Hurt and confusion and sadness, but anger was easier, so anger he felt).

It was almost a relief to feel fear when Baz’s mother visited. Fear and something else as he listened to everything she had to say, accepted the kiss, and promised to pass it all on to Baz even if he wasn’t sure he’d ever see Baz again.

He didn’t know what he was going to do, but he couldn’t stay in his room anymore – he shared it with too many memories, too many ghosts (literally). He didn’t even know if he could stay at Watford. Maybe he’d leave and go find Baz – tell him about his mother, then pummel him silly. Eighth year was optional, anyway.

But then, on an insignificant Thursday, Baz came back.

He walked through the doors of the dining hall and for one terrifying moment Simon thought it was another visiting, thought Baz was dead and this was the true, last time Simon would ever see him. But he wasn’t a ghost – he was _real_ , he was _here_.

Simon’s chair toppled over with a huge crash as he leapt up, silencing the dining hall, but Simon didn’t care because Baz was _here_ , he was _okay_ and he was staring at Simon and…

And going to sit with Dev and Niall. Like everything was normal. Like he hadn’t been off ruining Simon’s life and making him worry himself sick for the past several weeks.

It was only Penny’s grip on his arm that kept Simon from rushing over and grabbing Baz, demanding where he’d been and asking if he was pleased with the wreck he’d made of Simon.

Lessons weren’t much better – Simon could feel his edges blurring with amped-up magic overflowing his boundaries, and it was impossible to concentrate when Baz was within arm’s reach.

Somehow Simon made it through the day without going off or attacking Baz, but he was anxious and fidgety when he got back to their room, his fists clenched and teeth gritted even through the shower he’d hoped would calm his nerves. He fought back every scenario of the unavoidable confrontation with Baz that popped into his head with as much anger as possible (especially, and particularly vehemently, the ones in which Baz kissed him and apologized immediately, or apologized immediately and kissed him, or some other variation on those two actions).

Simon did not expect Baz to be in the room, calmly unpacking, when he came out of the shower.

(When he came out of the shower _shirtless_ ).

Baz turned when Simon walked out of the bathroom and they both froze, staring at each other.

Baz didn’t look good. Well, he always looked good, Simon supposed, but he looked… unwell. Sick. Penny had suggested Baz was just sick over the past weeks ( _why couldn’t he be sick_ here _?_ Simon had refrained from whining) but Simon hadn’t thought vampires could even get sick.

After an eternity of silence Baz broke Simon’s gaze, turning to his suitcase open on his bed.

“Snow,” he said in greeting, plainly, cordially, like this was the beginning of a regular year and he was getting his acknowledgement of Simon’s existence out of the way as quickly as possible.

Simon wanted to scream.

“Where’ve you been!?”

Baz shrugged off the question like it was an annoying bug.

“It’s none of your business,” he said, a warning in his voice Simon blew right past. “None of his business”, as though Simon hadn’t been worrying himself sick for the past weeks. As though last year didn’t even matter. As though Simon’s feelings didn’t matter.

“Can we not do this?” Simon snapped, familiar anger prickling behind his forehead.

“Do what?”

“Act like nothing’s wrong. Like everything’s normal.”

Baz paused in his ministrations (which looked a lot like refolding the same shirt over and over, but Simon wasn’t going to say anything) to turn and look at Simon with a sneer.

“Everything is normal.”

The words were said with such plain malice they defied any protest. Simon could only gape at Baz, shocked, before choking out,

“Are you serious?”

Baz said nothing, turning back to his suitcase. Simon was frozen, feeling physically ill and frustrated and _angry_ because Baz being back was supposed to fix everything but instead all it did was make the distance between them more obvious.

“Could you just—” Simon began, and maybe it was the strain in his voice, or maybe he’d just pushed too far like he always did, but Baz slammed his suitcase closed and whipped around to face Simon with fury in his eyes.

“No, I _just_ couldn’t,” he snapped, then abruptly shoved past Simon and slammed out of the room, leaving Simon alone once more.

***

It was a tossup between what was worse: being trapped in a coffin for 6 weeks or being back at Watford for one day.

Baz had made a grand entrance because it’s what one does after disappearing for weeks without a sound, and why not make his return as dramatic as possible. Maybe it would distract from his unusually pallid pallor and the way his limp had returned.

In any event, bursting through the dining hall doors was all well and good until Baz was confronted with the problem that’d he’d left hanging at the tail end of the previous school year. Or, to be more specific, the problem that had been wrenched away by some magic-eating manifestation of the problem’s younger self before Baz had had a chance to do anything.

Snow looked as stupid and infuriatingly attractive as always, Baz was slightly disappointed to see, if not worse for wear. Nowhere near as bad as Baz, of course, but thin in a more-than-physical way like he always was when he came back after the summer.

It took less effort than Baz expected to break the connection that was rippling to life between them, to pull his gaze away and walk over to sit with Dev and Niall who, bless their souls, acted like there was nothing out of the ordinary.

That’s what Baz needed – ordinary. It was hard enough passing off Wellbelove and Snow’s stares for their usual pining and hatred, respectively, but Baz probably would’ve lost it if either Dev or Niall had said a word about his disappearance.

As it was Baz barely refrained from cursing Snow out during lessons for his constant glances and what was apparently enough emotional turmoil manifested as excess magic to nearly intoxicate everyone sitting in Snow’s vicinity.

So it really wasn’t Baz’s fault that he was several sharp words past polite when Snow tried to bring everything up. It wasn’t. He’d held himself together throughout the day but a shirtless Snow screeching at him about everything was the tipping point. Baz was only so strong.

He did regret storming out of the room, although not because he was in any hurry to make up with Snow. It was the headache beginning to pulse behind his eyes and the pain in every step as he walked across the lawn that made him reconsider his decision, and—

“Baz!”

_Crowley_ , he could not catch a break.

Baz turned around just as Wellbelove came to a stop in front of him. She looked up at him through her lashes and deliberately tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, playing up her fair maiden shtick.

(Baz had the sneaking suspicion that he’d actually like Wellbelove as a person if she acted like one, instead of playacting as the very thing she claimed to not want to be. But what did Baz know – maybe years of being treated like a prize had made her start to believe she was one. Or maybe she was just a painfully horrible flirt).

(As it was, Baz felt himself falling into a role as he looked down at Wellbelove, mouth curling up just slightly despite his mood, responding to her behavior in kind).

“Wellbelove,” Baz said, the word coming out as smooth as always even through Baz’s fatigue. Baz wondered for a beat if Wellbelove would be able to tell that he was tired. If she’d say anything at all even if she could.

“How are you?” she asked. “How was your break? It’s so good to see you.”

Wellbelove’s voice grew more feathery and put-on the longer she stood there, and as Baz looked down at her posture and her expression something in him finally came loose.

“Look, Wellbelove, this has to stop.”

“What does?” she asked, cocking her head, eyes wide and mock-innocent.

“This… this _game_. I can’t—” Baz stopped abruptly, running a hand through his hair. After a moment he sighed, glancing back down at Wellbelove. “I’m not interested in you, Agatha. I never have been. And I never will be.”

Wellbelove’s face fell slowly, like a building coming apart after a charge was set off inside the walls. It was all Baz could do not to wince, but eventually it was over, a sour expression pinching at Wellbelove’s usually pristinely held features.

“So that’s it?” she asked eventually, the words quiet.

“I’m sorry,” Baz said. “I never—”

Wellbelove interrupted him with a harsh, clipped laugh, running a hand down her face.

“You know, for as much as you and Simon hate each other, you are _hilariously_ alike sometimes.”

Baz could only gape, feeling his headache worsening at every word, as Wellbelove continued.

“For example,” she said, words as dark as her eyes. “You’re both self-centered, selfish assholes who are too arrogant to ever think you could ever be less than 100% right about _everything_. You _use_ people, use your “friends”, all while trying to chase destinies that aren’t even your own. And the whole time, while you two are arguing and fighting and demanding each other’s attention, you never stop to think about the impact you have on other people.”

Wellbelove was breathing hard by the time she finished, and Baz felt the verbal chewing out like it was something physical.

(She was right, that was the worst part, he and Snow were going to destroy each other as long as they existed in the same life).

“But you’re right,” Agatha continued, quieter now. When she glanced up at Baz this time, though, her eyes were nothing but solid stone. “It’s my fault for believing that someone who was obsessed with someone else could ever have room for me.”

“Agatha—”

“No, Baz, you’re right. This has to stop. You’re right.”

“All I was going to say,” Baz said, watching as Agatha began to turn away but froze, shoulders held stiff and shaking with the effort of keeping everything back. “Was that it’s not your fault. It’s not your fault for trying to find happiness. I’m just sorry you looked for it in me.”

Agatha said nothing for a moment, frozen save for the slight movement of her shoulders and the wind through her hair. Then she nodded, and Baz caught the tail end of a,

“Me too.”

Baz watched for a moment as Agatha walked off, then turned and headed for the catacombs.

Baz was surprised how happy he was to be back at Watford.

Or maybe he was just happy to be out of that coffin.

In all honesty, there was nothing particularly wonderful about being back at Watford except that it provided distraction. Baz could’ve easily listed the hundred or so complaints he had with being back – over half of them devoted to the same bloody _Chosen One_ – but it was still better than being at home.

And anything was better than being kidnapped.

It was Snow that was the problem. The problems. Most of them, at least.

There was still Wellbelove, but once Baz properly told her off (because he was _done_ – with her drama, with her, with Snow, with this year) she left him alone. Unlike Snow, whose eyes tracked Baz whether they were two feet apart in their own bedroom or on opposite sides of the dining hall.

Snow stared hard at Baz like he thought it would draw Baz’s attention – he didn’t know Baz had had years of practice resisting his damn magnetism. Baz was an expert at _not_ looking at Snow in a way he knew came off as irritatingly natural, especially to Snow.

That didn’t mean the staring didn’t get to Baz. It did.

(Or, to be more specific, _Snow_ got to him, whether he was staring at Baz or not).

What was particularly irritating for Baz, and what made the staring just that much more distracting even as Baz continue to ignore it, was that there was no reason for it. Snow had rejected him. He’d lied about being back with Wellbelove (or maybe Wellbelove had lied about _not_ being back with Snow – Baz didn’t know who he trusted less) instead of plainly rejecting Baz.

And now he was staring at Baz like he wanted something from him, like he hadn’t made his choice. Like he was _angry_ at Baz (and if _anyone_ had a right to be angry it was Baz).

But Baz was equally practiced at avoiding Snow as he was at ignoring him, and as a defense mechanism it worked significantly better for Baz’s psyche. Baz didn’t have to keep his mind off of Snow when Snow wasn’t in the vicinity, and walking away was always easier than pulling himself back from the brink of giving in.

It worked for a while, but Baz was weakened from his time in the coffin, and Snow’s restlessness and constant attention was wearing away at Baz’s defenses. He had always been good at resisting temptation, keeping himself under wraps, hiding his emotions; this should’ve been no different. He held himself back and back and back and he was harsh and cold because he was _not_ going to get worked up over this, he had held on for seven bloody years, he was _not_ going to let Snow get to him and snap and then,

“Why are you acting like this?”

A familiar scene: Snow’s face centimeters from his own, a hand twisted in his collar, pressing him back against the door, expression twisted in anger.

It was too familiar. Snow was too close. Baz hated him.

Using all the anger heavy in his limbs, Baz shoved Snow off, praying the anathema wouldn’t kick in.

“You’re a piece of shit,” he spat. “Leave me alone.”

“I don’t understand why you won’t just _talk to me_!” Snow yelled, grabbing onto Baz’s arm as Baz turned for the door. Baz shook him off, backing up against the door and feeling uncomfortably like a cornered animal.

“Why should I?”

Snow’s chest was heaving, and he looked like he was close to snapping.

“There’s nothing you want to say to me?” he asked, teeth gritted. “What about you and Agatha? In the Wood?”

“Leave me alone,” Baz said again. If Snow wasn’t going to apologize for lying, Baz wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of knowing Baz wasn’t interested in Wellbelove. Let Snow worry for the rest of his life about Wellbelove running off with Baz. At least then he’d be thinking of Baz.

Snow let out a strangled cry in response, but Baz was slipping out the door before Snow could say anything else.

Baz hated him. Baz _hated him_.

Somehow, after angrily stalking around Watford and telling himself he hated Snow more than anything else, Baz found himself climbing the stairs to the Mage’s office. There had always been something satisfying about pissing Snow off (it likely had more to do with having Snow’s attention in general, but Baz had a reputation to maintain, and if he wanted to be technical he could tie it all back to hating Snow and wanting to be able to get under his skin). And with the Mage off raiding homes like a warlord, Baz could check off _Help Fiona_ and _Piss Off Snow_ at the same time.

Snow wasn’t supposed to catch him. Snow _never_ caught him – Baz was better than that. He had years dodging Snow in the catacombs as proof. But Baz had been distracted and then Snow had been there, sword at the ready like a true dashing hero, charging in and demanding to know what Baz was doing and then…

Then kneeling down and grabbing the photo like it was the most incriminating piece of evidence that existed. Turning it over and standing up, his expression changing, turning awkward and guilty as he handed it to Baz and Baz saw

Himself.

Young, in the nursery. His mother’s hand barely in the frame.

Baz could still, _still_ feel Snow’s eyes on him, and he wanted nothing more than to get out of this office and be alone.

(He wanted his mother to be alive).

But Snow was saying something, and as Baz shoved the photo in his pants pocket and looked up Snow repeated what he’d said.

“I have to tell you something.”

Several possibilities flitted through Baz’s mind at Snow’s words, and he didn’t particularly like any of them.

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“You will, trust me.”

“Why should I?” Baz asked, again. _Why should I do anything for you? You lied to my face and gouged out my heart because you were too much of a coward to reject me properly_.

The torchlight from the hallway and the ambient light through the large window behind the Mage’s desk cast Snow’s face in shadows, making his frustrated grimace look like something almost threatening.

“Jesus Christ, Baz, it’s about your mother!”

Baz didn’t give Snow a reaction, much as one was unpleasantly swirling within him. At Baz’s lack of response Snow sighed, curling down on himself and running a hand tiredly over his face.

“Why are you being so difficult?” Snow mumbled, and though it was probably a rhetorical question Baz couldn’t help himself when he said,

“You know why.”

When Snow’s eyes met Baz’s they were tired, all the anger from earlier dissipated, leaving behind a visible weariness that felt uncomfortably intimate.

“Just c’mon,” Snow said, turning and leaving the office, never turning back to see if Baz was following him. Baz followed him anyway. What else could he do?

He felt tied to Snow, sometimes. He hated it.

When they got back to their room Snow wasted no time in telling Baz the news.

And Baz almost broke down right there.

He’d missed it. He’d bloody missed his mother’s visiting because he was half-dead, trapped in a coffin by numpties.

Snow cut through Baz’s panic, asking with more than a hint of a demanding tone,

“Where were you that she couldn’t reach you?”

“Indisposed. It’s—”

“None of my business. Right.”

The same frustration and anger Baz had been holding back came in like the tide again, almost swallowing him up.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“How was I supposed to!” Snow shouted. “You did everything in your power save for a spell to keep me from talking to you.”

If it hadn’t been for Snow catching the look in Baz’s eyes and grabbing his arms, holding him back, Baz would’ve attacked him. Screw the anathema, screw this bloody school. Baz was done.

“Baz. _Baz_!” Snow snapped, clearing some of the rage from Baz’s vision. “I’m sorry. Listen to me, okay? _I’m sorry_.”

“I don’t want—”

“Not for… not for everything else,” Snow said, slowly releasing Baz’s wrists, fully dropping his hands when he saw Baz wasn’t going to try and strangle him. “I mean, I _am_ sorry, for everything else, but—”

Baz stopped Snow with a look.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner,” Snow finished.

When Baz was almost asleep that night, mind on the edge of falling into blissfully empty darkness for at least a little while, he heard Snow say quietly,

“You know I’ll help you.”

It took a long time for the words to register in Baz’s tired brain, and by the time they did he considered just not replying. But he turned over and saw Snow staring at him in the dark, not exactly wide awake but certainly more alert than Baz.

“Help me what,” Baz sighed.

“I’ll help you find whatever killed your mother.”

_I don’t need your help_ , Baz’s tired brain supplied. But when he opened his mouth all that came out was,

“Why?”

“Because she was your mother.”

***

Simon didn’t know why Baz so easily agreed to let him help find his mother’s killer, but he wasn’t going to question it. He was just happy Baz agreed at all.

Progress was slow going – all they discovered that first afternoon was that Baz’s mother had killed herself in the nursery (and Simon would never forget the look on Baz’s face as he read the article. There was shock and sadness there, of course, but there was something more deeply hidden, something dark and personal and _worrying_ , but Simon couldn’t put his finger on it).

And then there had been the dragon to deal with.

(The dragon, and Baz looking like a bloody _angel_ floating down over the moat and onto the Lawn; Baz trying to cast an entire nursery rhyme to save both Watford and the dragon; Simon, hesitating only a beat before placing a hand on Baz’s shoulder and _pushing_ , watching in awe as Baz’s voice sharpened, as the spell grew more powerful, powerful enough to send the dragon flying off; Baz turning and looking at Simon with disbelief and a hint of fear in his eyes before Penny came crashing in).

It all passed by in such a blur it left Simon dizzy, but at the end of it Baz was at least looking at him again (even if it was out of the corner of his eye and only in hesitant glances) and Penny was in on the whole Baz’s-mother-visiting thing.

Simon was glad to have Penny helping them - she was bloody brilliant, for one, and having her there made things between Baz and him slightly less strained.

(Simon was only a _little_ jealous at how easily Baz and Penny hit it off).

 “I still can’t believe we’re working with _Baz_ ,” Penny said one day when Baz was out. “Fifth-year you would have an aneurysm.”

Simon hummed in response, too tired from researching and hypothesizing to form a proper response. It had been a few days since they all stared working together, looking for any possible leads about Nicodemus or anyone else involved in the nursery attack. They hadn’t turned up anything of note, but Simon had started to feel like he was on solid ground again.

It finally started to seem like things between Baz and him were settling down. It still didn’t feel like they were friends, but they’d _never_ really been friends. Their relationship had always been so complicated and weighed down by other factors that it could’ve never been properly labeled as “friendship”. And it still couldn’t be, not when they were trying to undo six years of tension that all imploded last year. But spending time with Baz like this felt like something akin to what friends would do, even if Simon wasn’t sure they ever _could_ be friends in the traditional sense.

(Or maybe he just didn’t want them to be).

Regardless, he was just happy they were talking again and not fighting every time they did. It was progress.

Penny saying something about the ‘magic sharing’, for lack of a better term, drew Simon out of his thoughts, and he was about to protest, refuse to try it again with her because he didn’t want to hurt her, but she was only enthusing about the spectacle with the dragon.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Penny said, the wonder in her voice making Simon vaguely uncomfortable. “Imagine if you could do it again. If you could actually control your power.”

“I wasn’t in control. It was all Baz.”

Simon _couldn’t_ control it, that was the problem. He had all this power and all this destiny and he couldn’t handle any of it.

“It was like you were focused for the first time – directed. You were using him like a wand.”

When the words registered they stole Simon’s breath, and he almost wasn’t able to get out his protest of,

“I wasn’t using him.”

He couldn’t have been using him.

When Baz returned that evening, after Penny left, Simon barely refrained from grabbing him and apologizing immediately (and for more than just the magic sharing).

But he’d managed to wait until Baz had settled in before he’d asked to try sharing his magic again because he hadn’t

He hadn’t been using him. He just had to be sure.

Baz was stubborn like always, but Simon pushed past his protestations and clambered up onto his bed, grasping Baz’s hands and fighting through his own blush to open himself up and let his magic flow through his fingertips and into Baz.

The star-filled space Baz conjured around them with only a few words was beautiful. Incredibly beautiful.

Simon let himself fantasize, for a moment, because it was such a moment – surrounded by stars ( _he said we were stars_ ), holding Baz’s hands, staring into his eyes and smiling at the way he laughed giddily. He wasn’t using him. It was never that unbalanced. It was – _a completed circuit_. It was something magical.

Eventually Simon pulled back, slightly reluctant but worried it was too much, even for Baz, when he’d seen Baz’s eyes glaze over.

Baz held onto Simon’s hands even after they’d returned to Earth. He held onto his hands for so long Simon forced himself to assume he’d forgotten they were holding hands at all – otherwise Baz would’ve pulled back by now.

They had never really held hands, before, not just for the sake of holding hands. It was always in the middle of things, one of them grasping the other for support, for reassurance. It felt nice – more than nice – to just hold hands.

It was a comfort, too, to know Baz couldn’t pull magic from him – it meant no one else could pull magic from him – but there was still an imbalance there, if Simon could force his magic into other peoples’ veins.

_You were using him like a wand._

“I’ve never heard of a magician taking someone else’s magic,” Baz said, eyes distant and lost in thought. “Can you imagine? If there were a spell for that? We’d tear each other apart.”

“We’re already tearing each other apart,” Simon said, and he hadn’t meant to, it was an innocuous phrase turned weighty statement because of everything that had happened and they’d just been getting to stable ground, again, and now Simon had to go and—

“I can take it,” Baz said quietly. As soon as the words were out of his mouth Baz froze, so minutely Simon would’ve missed it if he hadn’t been so close to Baz. But the moment was over quickly and Baz didn’t look up, only brushed a thumb over Simon’s knuckles once before pulling his hands back. “Now get off my bed.”

Simon must have misheard. Or Baz was still in his own mind, imagining using Simon’s power to conquer the entire World of Mages.

Maybe he was thinking about actually tearing Simon apart. Of course he could take it – Simon probably wouldn’t put up a fight, anymore, as uncharacteristic as that was. He couldn’t imagine killing Baz any more than he could imagine truly hating him, now. He wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he killed Baz.

Simon pushed down the desire to bring it up and went to bed, facing away from Baz because if he didn’t he’d stare at him and never get to sleep.

The next few weeks flew by in a mess of classes and afternoon meetings with Penny and Baz, with Simon just as busy with the investigation into Baz’s mother’s death as he was with his own investigation over every look Baz sent his way. It was like bloody fifth year all over again (only this time Simon wasn’t lying to himself about his particular interest in tracking Baz’s eyes, cataloguing the different ways they shone when Simon said something he agreed with or darkened in frustration whenever another one of their leads was a dead end).

It was a few days before winter break when Agatha asked to talk to Simon. And Simon really shouldn’t have been surprised that Agatha didn’t want him at her house for Christmas; he shouldn’t have been disappointed, either, but he’d spent every Christmas when he’d been at Watford at the Wellbelove’s, and he couldn’t imagine anything different.

Penny’s house wasn’t an option, either, unless Simon wanted to face her mother after the Mage had raided their house (and he didn’t, even though it was too far, even for the Mage; he knew the Bunces didn’t agree with a lot of what the Mage did, but they weren’t like the Old Families. It wasn’t right).

The prospect of being completely alone for even a few weeks was disheartening after the summer Simon had had. Even the Mage would probably be too busy to do more than drop by. There was always Ebb, Simon supposed, but it wouldn’t be the same.

“What are your plans for the break?”

The question broke through Simon’s dissatisfied thoughts. He looked up to see Baz staring at him, waiting for an answer.

Simon almost couldn’t find the words to respond, he was so shocked. This, too, shouldn’t have been very surprising – he and Baz _did_ talk to each other, and about trivial things like vacation plans and classes, but he was still shocked.

More so when, after he’d stuttered out, “Nothing. I’m— here. I’m staying here,” Baz had said,

“Come to Hampshire.”

The worst thing was Simon could imagine it, if he let himself. So he didn’t. It was crazy. He couldn’t go to Baz’s house for Christmas and, what, meet his family? Spend almost three weeks lazing around with Baz, possibly upsetting the balance they’ve finally, tentatively, achieved— No. Simon couldn’t do it.

***

“You can help me more with the investigation,” Baz sad. Crowley, why was he pushing this? Why had he even suggested it? Why has he been saying things like “I can take it” and “Come to Hampshire” out loud?

He knew the answer – because something in Baz had given in when Snow offered to help Baz with this in the first place despite everything between them; because he’d listened when Baz told him not to kill that dragon; because he’d held Baz's hands and smiled at him, the stars reflected in his eyes; because Baz had let himself dream to stay alive for 6 weeks in a coffin and he was as weak to Snow as he always was.

It wasn’t like Baz had forgiven Snow. He very much hadn’t.

But that didn’t mean he didn’t like spending time with him.

(And it was reassuring to have Snow devote this much attention to helping find Baz’s mother’s killer, even though he probably still thought Baz was plotting to take down the Mage and run off with Wellbelove. Even though Baz hadn’t forgiven him. It meant something).

“No, I… Baz, I can’t.”

And that, too. Snow used to avoid saying Baz’s name, as a general rule, as much as possible. Now it was almost the opposite. Maybe Snow was trying to subconsciously get Baz to like him more – a losing battle, as Baz had hit maximum capacity a while ago.

If Baz argued anymore he’d probably have to explain just why he wanted Snow at his house, and that wasn’t a conversation he really wanted to have.

“Fine. Your loss.”

The day Baz left for home, he extended the opportunity one more time, just in case. Snow shook his head and wouldn’t meet Baz’s eyes.

Baz was going to leave it, but Snow looked upset (and if he didn’t want to spend Christmas by himself _why didn’t he just come to Hampshire with Baz_?) and he was probably thinking about how Wellbelove and Bunce’s families had rejected him (Baz knew the story – Bunce had told him without much prompting, and none of it was surprising, but it wasn’t pleasant, either). And Baz should’ve just left, but he could at least give Snow _some_ comfort.

“You should know. About the thing with Wellbelove in the Wood…”

Snow’s head jerked up.

“It’s not what you think.”

“So you _weren’t_ confessing to my ex-girlfriend?”

In the back of his head Baz made note of the _ex_ , there, because in all the time he’d known him, Snow had always, _always_ , maintained Wellbelove’s position as his girlfriend. Even when they were on breaks. Even when those breaks lasted for an entire year and Snow was kissing him.

Baz shook his head. “I was telling her off. She wanted to know how I felt and I was tired of playing the game.”

Snow didn’t say anything for a moment, looking down at his hands. Then he looked up at Baz with sharp eyes.

“Game? So you flirted with Agatha for seven years, and it was all for nothing?”

“It was to get to you.”

“But it— All the flirting, it _meant_ nothing?”

“Yes.”

Snow gaped at him. “And you think I want to hear that? She was carrying around your bloody handkerchief, Baz!”

“My what?”

“Here!” Snow snapped, digging out Baz’s handkerchief and thrusting it in his face. Baz dumbly reached out for the handkerchief he’d recognized as his as soon as Snow had pulled it out, watching as Snow snatched it back before he could grab it.

“I can’t believe you did that to her,” Snow continued, voice venomous (and Baz had to be imagining the slight tone of jealousy; it was just wishful thinking) as he pocketed the handkerchief. “Does she even know?”

_It was for you it was for you it was for you it was for you_ _it was—_

“It was just flirting, Snow. I was never an option for her,” Baz said, wanting to rip Snow’s whole pocket off just to get his handkerchief because he didn’t want to think, right now, about why Snow wanted it. “But you know what? I’m done. I’ll stay out of her life and out your way so you can make up and marry her like you’d always planned. Does that make you feel better?”

Baz’s tone was sharp now, too, but he couldn’t help it. Snow could still want that life – probably _did_ want that life – but he still did things, like keep Baz’s handkerchief, that made Baz want to scream in confusion.

“Merlin, Baz, not really!”

“Fine!” Baz shouted, slamming the lid of his trunk closed. “Then I _won’t_ leave her alone! _I’ll_ damned well marry her, and we’ll have the best-looking kids in the history of magic, and we’ll name them all Simon just to get under your skin.”

“Augh! Just go!” Snow yelled back, but Baz was already turned and out the door.

Every time he thought they were getting somewhere it was like the past reached up to drag them back down. It didn’t seem possible that they’d ever work through it all, and if it weren’t for their truce for the sake of the investigation, Baz doubted they’d even be able to even look at each other without getting into a fight.

And to think, Baz had wanted Snow at his house. For three bloody weeks. What a disaster that would’ve been.

(At least that’s what Baz tried to convince himself of as he slammed around his bedroom at home, throwing things in drawers and stomping around until his stepmother peeked her head in to ask if everything was okay).

How could Baz have ever thought, ever even begun to imagine, an actual relationship with Snow. Every other conversation was an argument, every interaction a fight.

(Except for all the instances where they weren’t. Except when they weren’t arguing, Baz felt present and grounded and _alive_ in a way that was rare enough for him to be something special. Except maybe they were only arguing so much because they were always hurting each other and never getting any resolution).

(Baz never let himself hope).

(But he was still pissed Snow didn’t come home with him for Christmas).

It was still somehow not very surprising when Snow showed up – Snow did things like that, disrupted the traditional narrative like it was his job, made Baz’s heart clench in his chest as much as he told himself to not bother hoping.

(Looked bloody attractive even when he was dripping, hair a mess, eyes wild, standing in Baz’s foyer).

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m sorry,” Snow said, and he sounded out of breath, like he’d run all the way from Watford. Maybe he had. Baz crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, feigning indifference.

“What are you doing here?” Baz asked again, because hope was not something he let himself have when it came to Snow.

“Wasn’t I invited?” Snow asked back. In anyone else it would’ve been a question said with some amount of teasing humor; from Snow it was as genuine as possible. Somehow that was worse.

Baz didn’t deign the question with more of a response than an eye roll.

“I found out who Nicodemus is.”

***

It wasn’t until Simon was standing in Baz’s foyer, trying not to stare at Baz in _jeans_ while explaining who Nicodemus was, that he realized this might not have been the best plan of action.

Not once between Watford and Hampshire had Simon stopped to reconsider barging into Baz’s family home ( _mansion_ ) to give him this small, albeit important, piece of information. He just… _did_. Like always.

But now, following Baz further into the expansive mansion (and there _was_ an incredible amount of dark wood, Simon noticed), Simon regretted not looking for another way to share the information with Baz.

Only because it was almost Christmas, and Simon had shown up unannounced, and he was probably the Pitch’s second-biggest enemy or something, after the Mage.

And now he couldn’t stop staring at the way Baz’s jeans hugged his ass and Simon was not at all confident in his ability to not screw up whatever tentative balance they had between them.

Simon tried to make his escape as soon as possible, but Baz told him to stay.

And he could’ve said no. He _should’ve_ said no. But his clothes were still wet and he was cold and hungry and maybe he liked the idea of spending Christmas with Baz. Maybe. He could always leave tomorrow if things got weird.

So he stayed through dinner, as awkward as it was, and at the end of the night Simon somehow found himself laying on a couch in Baz’s room, head resting on a pillow that smelled so heavily of Baz it made Simon restless in more ways than one.

Simon could hear Baz’s breathing, and it was calming, but Simon was still too keyed up to be fully lulled to sleep. He thought about waking Baz up, but he couldn’t think what to do after that.

It was weird to talk about Nicodemus being a vampire when Baz still wouldn’t admit that he was one. Except for the occasional slip of the tongue, Baz never even came close to admitting it.

Simon wondered if he was just stubborn or if there was another reason for his hesitancy. Simon certainly didn’t care that Baz was a vampire, not after everything else. He had fixated on it for years, but when it came down to it he never told the Mage (and not just because he didn’t have substantial proof). And Baz wasn’t dead, no matter what he said. And he certainly wasn’t a monster.

Something in the back of Simon’s mind reminded him of Baz’s reaction to the article about his mother’s death at her own hand. There was a connection there, something Simon couldn’t piece together as sleep tugged at his brain. Something worrying Simon lost to his subconscious as he finally drifted off to sleep.

The next day Simon and Baz went to track down Nicodemus in the evening, after a day spent in various libraries and parks doing “research” that amounted to Baz reading and Simon sitting, eating food Baz bought him (only because Simon, in his rush out of Watford, had forgotten any money), trying and failing to not watch him.

(Simon told himself it all only _felt_ like a date because of where his mind was at).

They had to wait until the evening to go find Nicodemus, and it was surreal to see Baz in a suit, his hair slicked back, getting into his father’s Jaguar with a familiarity that reminded Simon of how different they were.

They did find Nicodemus at some dark vampire hangout Baz had sniffed out (literally), but he didn’t tell them much, too worried about protecting himself from whoever it was that had sent the vampires to Watford.

Beside him in the dark Simon could sense Baz’s anger growing, and as much as he hated the thought of leaving without getting more from Nicodemus, Simon didn’t have his wand and he _really_ didn’t want to have to go off if a fight started.

Simon started needling at Baz to leave, trying to distract him enough to get him to calm down. Baz, thankfully, conceded, but he wasn’t happy. If anything, it seemed like the whole experience unnerved Baz more than Simon.

He drove them back like he had a death wish, and Simon thought of Nicodemus’ words when Baz had lit a cigarette. _Am I supposed to think you’re your mother’s son? Going to set us all alight?_ _You haven’t killed yourself yet_.

Once they hit the countryside Baz pulled off the road suddenly, getting out of the car and walking towards the trees. Simon had already been worried, but when he saw fire begin to light the tree branches and groundcover, he started to run.

“Baz!”

“Fuck off, Snow!”

Simon found Baz sat under a flaming tree, his face lit in the flickering light of the fire that was slowly surrounding him.

“What are you doing?” Simon shouted, crouching down in front of Baz. “Put it out!”

Baz didn’t respond, and Simon tried another tactic.

“It’s okay! We’ll find the name some other way – this isn’t over! We’ll still do what your mother wanted us to do.”

In response Baz looked up, fire glowing behind his eyes.

“This is what my mother would want me to do. She died killing vampires. And when they bit her, she killed herself. She would never have let me live.”

“That isn’t true! She loved you—”

“She loved what I _was_. I’m one of them, now.”

“You’re not,” Snow said, and it came out more like a plea, and he felt the tickle of tears on his cheeks and wondered when he started crying. “You’re not a monster. You’re not one of them. You’re _not_.”

“Fuck off, Snow. This is what I deserve.”

“Well it’s not what I deserve.”

“Then _go_.”

Simon was fully crying, now, tugging on Baz’s arm and trying to bodily drag him out of the flames. It couldn’t end like this – nothing had been resolved, Simon had never even gotten to properly apologize for everything.

Baz was staring at him, but his eyes were far away, like he’d already given up. And Simon was so worried he’d spell him away and that would be it.

The fire was all around them, now – Simon could feel it against his back and see it in his peripheries – and he didn’t know what to do, he was still crying and Baz was going to die and then Baz looked up and said,

“Simon…” like it was a prayer, the last word he’d ever say, and Simon…

Simon kissed him.

Simon kissed him with as much truth as he could, _you’re not a monster, you’re not one of them, it’s going to be okay_.

Everything was so hot.

(Fire).

Baz's lips were hot.

(Fire).

His hands on Simon's cheeks were brands.

(The fire).

His tears on Simon's cheeks a salve.

Simon remembered the danger they were in when Baz pushed him back by the shoulders. His heart plummeted for a fraction of a second before Baz spelled the fire out around them, then gripped a hand in Simon’s jumper and pulled him forward, sealing their lips together again.

It didn’t even matter that the air smelled like smoke and Simon was on his knees on the ground – he held onto Baz’s face like a lifeline and kissed him like he’d wanted to for the past several months. And Baz kissed him back – hesitantly, at first, but quickly settling into a familiar pace.

When Simon wound a hand into Baz’s hair and tugged, Baz gasped against his lips, then abruptly pulled back.

“Sorry, I—”

“No, it’s… I just haven’t fed in a while,” Baz said, running his tongue distractingly over his lips.

“Okay,” Simon said, because he wanted to get back to kissing Baz as quickly as possible, and If Baz needed to feed for that to happen, that was okay.

Even Baz’s caginess about having Simon around when he fed couldn’t make Simon stop grinning. He smiled all the way back to Baz’s house, was still smiling as they grabbed leftovers and sat in front of the fireplace in Baz’s room to eat them.

Simon only hesitated a second before he crawled over and leaned against Baz (and he didn’t care what Baz said – he thought the way Baz’s fangs popped out when he ate was cool).

“Hey,” Simon said when they were done, breaking the comfortable silence and nudging Baz with his shoulder. Baz’s eyes flicked over to Simon in acknowledgement that he’d heard. “I’m sorry.”

“Simon—”

“Please let me apologize,” Simon said, gently reaching over and taking the hand that Baz wasn’t holding himself up with.

Baz sighed heavily, and for a moment Simon thought he’d pull his hand back, but he didn’t, just gripped Simon’s fingers and avoided his gaze.

“You lied,” Baz said, and it came out harsh and hurt and Simon hated himself for it.

“I know. And I’m sorry. I panicked. Agatha had just told me she wanted you and you’d left after I… after _we_... How could I have not taken that as a rejection?”

Baz rolled his eyes. “By not being so bloody self-centered. Merlin, Snow, I needed some time to work through everything.”

“And you couldn’t have told me that first?” Simon asked, watching as Baz’s face shuttered closed. “Hey, no. Don’t do that. I’m not mad, I’m just… we could’ve worked through it together, that’s all I’m saying.”

“It would’ve turned into an argument,” Baz said, and Simon wondered who he was trying to convince.

“Maybe,” Simon agreed, then squeezed Baz’s hand. “But maybe not.”

When Baz glanced up at Simon his eyes were searching.

“All we ever do is fight,” Baz said quietly.

Simon hummed. “It’s not _all_ we do,” he said with a suggestive tone, grinning at the look Baz shot him. “And—” Simon started, voice growing more serious as he thought about the past years. “I think it’s okay. That we argue, I mean. I argue with Penny. I certainly argue with Agatha a lot.”

“But not every time you talk with them.”

“Are we arguing now?” Simon asked. Baz’s brow furrowed at the question.

“No?”

Simon smiled, nudging Baz’s shoulder with his own.

“So we don’t argue _every_ time we talk.”

Baz huffed a laugh, rolling his eyes. Simon smiled at the way the fire lit up his small smile, feeling something in his chest warm pleasantly.

“Hey,” Simon said again after a moment.

“You already have my attention,” Baz said, although he didn’t turn his gaze away from the fire.

But Simon wanted Baz to look at him, wanted Baz to be able to see the honesty in his eyes, so he tugged on Baz’s hand until Baz turned to him, expression soft and open in a way that gave Simon the confidence he needed to say,

“I really, _really_ like you.”

***

Baz believed him. Not just because he wanted it to be true, but because Snow wouldn’t be here, after everything, if he didn’t mean it.

Snow’s voice wavered as though he were scared as he said the words, vulnerability clear on his face. It made Baz regret ever being harsh and hard with this beautiful boy when all he’d ever wanted to do was love him.

Baz didn’t trust himself to say that, though, so instead he took Snow’s face in his hands and kissed him as gently as possible, letting Snow push him down and crawl over him and kiss him back. And Baz gave in to the kiss, to Snow’s hands under his shirt, to _Snow_ ; Baz leaned up to capture Snow’s lips over and over again because he’d always reach for Snow, and when Snow shifted down to meet him and make it easier Baz fell even more in love with him.

All of last year had been fighting kisses, demands of attention and proof of weakness and nothing as warm and good as these. Snow kissed Baz until Baz’s lips were weak, until Snow couldn’t hold himself up any longer and lowered himself down onto the floor, rolling onto his side just as Baz did so they could keep kissing.

Baz fell asleep with Snow wrapped around him, his head tucked beneath Baz’s chin. Sometime later during the night Baz woke up, his eyes lighting first on the barely-burning embers in the dark fireplace, and then on the crown of Snow’s golden-haired head. Baz didn’t really want to move, but one of his arms was asleep, and he didn’t enjoy sleeping on the floor when his bed was a few feet away. So he unwound his limbs from Snow’s and got up, then reached down to gently shake Snow because no matter how romantic it was Baz probably couldn’t pick Snow up and carry him to bed.

Snow’s eyes blinked blearily open in the darkness, focusing on Baz. His expression lit something warm in Baz’s stomach, as did the way he reached both arms out for Baz so Baz could pull him to his feet.

They practically collapsed onto the bed, both dead tired after the day, and Snow immediately wrapped himself around Baz again, nuzzling into the crook of his neck. Baz took a moment – because Snow was right there, because Baz _could_ – to reach down and brush Snow’s curls back from his forehead, pressing his lips there so he could whisper, to the darkness, to Snow,

“I love you.”

Baz woke Snow up with a kiss (because he was a romantic; because he’d never get tired of kissing Snow; because he didn’t have to justify, anymore, why he kissed Snow) and was grateful, in that moment, for how uncomplicated Snow was, how simply he kissed Baz back and then kissed him again and again and again.

Things were only uncomplicated for a little while, though, because as soon as Bunce showed up _with Wellbelove in tow_ (and Baz had called Bunce because they needed her help, but he hadn’t expected her to bring Wellbelove along) everything awkwardly seized up again.

Baz was reminded of the other problem with being with Snow, the one they still avoided because it would definitely turn into a fight – conflicting loyalties, to the two sides of a major conflict. It was why Baz had hesitated telling him about being kidnapped (other than that he was embarrassed, but _mostly_ because he suspected the Mage and whenever anyone said anything negative about the Mage Snow threw a hissy fit).

And when it came down to it, although Wellbelove definitely took the prize for “biggest lapdog”, Snow was equally supportive of telling the Mage everything.

At least Bunce was on Baz’s side. And if anyone could talk sense into Snow, it was her.

By the end of the day, they hadn’t accomplished much more than filling Bunce (and Wellbelove) in on everything, but Baz was still tired and not unpleased when Wellbelove and Bunce got up to leave.

What he _was_ unpleased by was Wellbelove turning to Snow and saying,

“Simon. Come on.”

Baz had spent the afternoon darkly expecting Snow to make up with Wellbelove right in his study and get back together even despite last night, because he still wasn’t used to hope and wasn’t sure he wanted to be. But they remained awkward and cordial, at best, throughout the day, though apparently Wellbelove thought otherwise.

“What?” Snow asked, confusion clear on his face.

“We came to get you.”

“But… I thought—”

Wellbelove sighed, looking put out and tired.

“Just come on, Simon. It’s Christmas Eve. My parents will be happy to have you.”

Snow, honest to Merlin, looked like he was debating. Baz cleared his throat, if only to remind Snow that he was there, and Snow turned to look at him. When his eyes met Baz’s they settled into something determined, and he held Baz’s eyes as he said,

“Actually, I think I should stay here. Help with more research—”

“Simon—” Wellbelove began, sounding put out, and even Bunce looked tired, and in that moment Baz decided something. Snow was still looking at him, gaze solid and steady, like he was trying to prove something to Baz.

“It’s okay,” Baz heard himself say. He watched as Snow’s eyes went wide.

“Baz—”

“Simon, please, we have to go!”

With pursed lips and a final Look at Baz, Snow turned and slipped on his shoes, disappearing out the door after Bunce and Wellbelove, leaving Baz standing alone in his foyer, wondering why he’d just done that.

(To keep the peace. Because he wasn’t sure Snow wanted Bunce or Wellbelove to know about them. Because Snow had looked pained and indecisive and Baz didn’t want to be another choice Snow felt like he had to make).

It was still a pleasant surprise when Snow came back.

Déjà vu, too, with Snow panting in his doorway and staring wide-eyed at Baz.

Baz hardly got a “welcome back” out before Snow was crashing into him, pressing their lips together and running his fingers through Baz’s hair.

When they parted to breathe, Snow rested his forehead against Baz’s and said,

“I’m tired of acting like things aren’t different now,” answering Baz’s unasked question. “I wanted to spend Christmas with you. I missed you the second I got in the car.”

“What about Wellbelove and Bunce? What did you tell them?”

Under Baz’s hands Snow shrugged, and there was a hint of humor in his eyes when he looked up and met Baz’s.

“That I’d forgotten something.”

Baz furrowed his brow, searching Snow’s eyes for an explanation. He found one in the feeling of Snow’s lips when he pressed them against Baz’s, kissing him deep enough Baz felt it in his soul. And then when Snow pulled back just enough where Baz could feel the barest touch of his lips, could feel his ghosting across Baz’s mouth, and whispered,

“I love you, too,” well…

Baz found, within himself, the beginning flourishes of a wellspring of hope.


End file.
